


i won't rise until this battle's won

by stargent



Category: Ready or Not (2019)
Genre: Do You Believe In Life After Love?, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, What Happened to You? In-Laws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargent/pseuds/stargent
Summary: “I won’t lie to you, Grace.” Daniel’s voice sparks to life, clearer than she’s ever heard it, losing some of the disingenuous quality that she’d chalked up to copious amounts of alcohol and a clearly unhappy marriage. “But, you are going to make it out of here alive.”“Oh, really?”He smiles and its real, genuine, eyes alight with a sense of vigor that rekindles her own fire. “Someone has to burn it all down, right?”
Relationships: Daniel Le Domas/Grace Le Domas
Comments: 18
Kudos: 373





	i won't rise until this battle's won

**Author's Note:**

> warning: mentions of violence, character death, and trauma. 
> 
> this fic got away from me but i have no regrets, not a single 1k.

Grace is so intently focused on the sound of birdsong coming from the caged doves Alex’s family somehow managed to procure that she doesn’t realize someone’s come up behind her until they speak.

She jumps, knocking her elbow into the window with a colorful swear. The voice behind her back is too close, and though its familiar, she still has to shake off the slight edge of fear. 

It's ridiculous at best and stupid at worst. After all, what does she have to fear from the people who soon will become her family? From the house that will soon become like a second home?

Turning just slightly, as to not dislodge the cigarette dangling from her fingers, or rip the lace of her dress, Grace faces the man who would, in a matter of a half an hour, become her brother-in-law.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know.” Daniel nods to the cigarette in her hand and chuckles, the sound hollow, when she lets her eyes linger on the drink in his. “ _Ah_. Only to numb what I still have left to feel.” He toasts her with it, taking a long pull, before his attention settles out the window, where the last of the preparations are being put together.

“It's not too late to flee, you know.” There’s an odd lit to his voice, a strange way he meets her gaze yet looks right through her, as if he doesn’t see her at all. “You don’t belong in this family— I mean that as a compliment.”

When Grace does nothing more than continue to stare, the ash from her cigarette dangling, seconds from falling onto the pristine white of her dress.

“Alright.” She catches the look of defeat on his face, the way his eyes flutter closed, as if accepting a fate unbeknownst to her. When they open, the resignation has turned into a hard look, a glint in his eyes that reminds Grace so much of Alex in the midst of an argument. 

Determined. 

_Dangerous._

“How much has Alex told you about what happens after the wedding?”

“Daniel, are you trying to give me the birds and the bees talk? Because I assure you I know where to put his co—”

He cuts her off with a humorless chuckle, “No, no. I’m talking about a different kind of sin.” When she looks blankly at him, he curses and checks his Rolex. “He’s supposed to be the good brother. I—” Swallowing his words, Daniel shakes his head, “we’re running out of time. It's a Le Domas tradition to play a game after someone marries into the family.” 

When Grace opens her mouth, he simply presses onward, and she belatedly realizes that he’s somehow moved close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off of him, see the perspiration forming at the base of his neck, the quick, nervous flex of his fingers on his glass. 

She doesn’t startle when he reaches for her, however; somehow she finds herself leaning towards his touch rather than away. 

He angles her cigarette out the window, where her ash falls into the bush instead of tainting the pristine white of her skirt. Grace curses internally for not even noticing. 

“We really don’t have enough time, Grace. You need to _listen_ to me.”

“Daniel, are you alright? Should I call for someone?”

He looks around the room, as if searching for something, and pulls out a bag from under the bed. Its her old high school track duffle, the one she used to store her less than presentable clothes— her beat-up sneakers, cut-off shorts, and comfortably worn shirts— and hands it to her. “Pack this with essentials, Grace. Keep it hidden and keep it handy.”

“For the game?”

“Yes. In case you pull the one card no one wants to pull. In case we have to play hide and seek.” When Grace continues to stare at him, a bit bewildered and a whole lot of questioning how much he’s had to drink, Daniel runs a hand down his face and swallows thickly. “Just pack the bag, okay Grace? Do it for me. As a wedding present.”

Grace accepts the bag, willing to go along with Daniel’s delusion. “Aren’t you the one supposed to be giving me the present?”

He takes another swig of his drink and then looks over her shoulder. “Its time.”

“Daniel—” staring down at the bag in her hands, old and worn, a bag she’s never been able to get rid of, Grace wants to ask more, wants to know even if it all seems unreal. Only when she looks back up, he’s gone. “ _Batshit family_.”

A part of her tells her to kick the bag under the bed, to pay no mind to what Alex’s alcoholic brother has to say, and yet. 

And yet another part, the part of her that has done exactly what he told her to do so many times in the past, pack light and be ready, compels her otherwise.

Adding a change of underwear to the bag, she falters for a moment, hand hovering over the drawer containing her purse, and then shoves it inside.

Kicking the bag under the bed, Grace swears once again at herself, “when this is over, you’re going to have to explain to Alex why you had a go-bag ready in the morning.” 

◦°˚

A little over an hour later, Grace is swept up in a whirlwind, her own fairy tale coming to life and as her prince takes her hand, Grace closes her eyes and wishes, wishes hard, that she’ll get her happily ever after with the man of her dreams.

One moment, she’s staring into Alex’s eyes, the next she’s accepting a kiss from a distant cousin who may or may not be related through marriage and trying not to grimace as a trail of spit gets left behind on her cheek.

She doesn’t realize anyone’s noticed until something soft is pressed into her hand. 

Grace accepts it, realizing a moment too late who the handkerchief belongs to. 

Daniel’s attention is still focused on his brother, the two of them laughing. Alex’s head thrown back, the sun catching his hair, and he looks otherworldly, an angel in juxtaposition to his dark-haired brother.

Daniel’s laugh isn’t quite the same; there’s a cynical pull to his lips, a sardonic raise of his brows when Alex retorts with a gentle jab to his brother’s ribs. 

He’s a living Greek tragedy, and it leaves Grace wishing for the sweet bubbly taste of champagne to wash away the thought.

Waving down one of the servers, Grace accepts the crystal flute and hands the handkerchief back to him; he accepts it back without breaking eye-contact with Alex.

They’re a picturesque sight, one that the photographers are going out of their way to capture: the two Le Domas sons on display, laughing and merry, yet Grace can tell by the crinkle in the corners of Daniel’s eyes that, despite their public appearance, the affection is real.

“Congratulations, Grace.” Daniel turns to her, his lips barely touching her cheek yet her skin tingles, the feeling reminiscent of sunburn as it begins to set in, and Grace has to curl her fingers into the lace of her dress to stop herself from touching the spot. “Remember what I told you last night?”

Grace cocks and eyebrow, lips pursing, head tilting slightly to the side. “You mean when you gave me the directions to your room?”

“Right.” He says with an air of laughter, the sound fake and obviously practiced, and it works perfectly, no one seems to pay them any mind. Not even their aunt Helene is staring at them any longer, her ice-pick leer has landed on a waitress at the corner of the room who’s begun to sway to the music. “If you can’t find Alex, hide there.”

“Hide from who? The big bad wolf?” She presses a hand against her mouth to maintain her composure, “Oooh, the monsters under my bed? _Your family?_ ” A giddy, almost hysterical snort slips from her, one that brings a frown to Daniel’s face. “Don’t worry, if I get scared, Daniel, I have my husband.”

Daniel’s eyes linger on his brother, “Indeed.” With a nod, he steps back, allowing others to continue down the line and offer their congratulations and well wishes. 

By the time the sun sets and the last of their visitors are lingering by the edge of the property, bidding their farewells and taking one last look at the sprawling mansion, Grace’s cheeks ache from all the smiling. 

Alex readjusts his grip on her hand once again, his palm oddly sweaty despite the coolness of the afternoon, a brief hint of winter’s arrival in the air, and when he smiles at her, it doesn’t reach his eyes, barely even lifts at the corners of his mouth.

“Lets go inside, okay?” Grace squeezes their joined hands and relief floods her chest when his lips curve into tiny smile, one meant just for her alone.

It's that smile she thinks about when she places the card into the box at midnight, surrounded by her new family.

Her husband’s smile, his laugh, the way he always reaches for her in the morning, as if he can’t start his day without knowing she’s there. 

When the card comes out, _Hide and Seek,_ written in beautiful calligraphy, Grace doesn’t stop to question how the card can pick a game so easily, how the semantics of the game box even works. 

When she looks up, there is horror in Daniel’s eyes while Alex’s own have shuttered closed. The rest of the family looks on, oddly expectant; a mix of ravenous and wary.

The champagne she substituted for food bubbles in her stomach, creating an unsteady sea.

“Are we really going to play this?” She laughs, because what else is there for her to do— the whole idea is ridiculous; she was supposed to be on a plane by now, heading to some island with Alex where she would spend the following week either on a beach, on a sun chair, or on top of her husband.

Wishing for sand between her toes, Grace musters up the best convincing grin she can, and flips the card back and forth between her fingers. “Hide and seek?”

Grace can’t blame in on the champagne when she stands on unsteady feet, Alex’s hand ghosting against the small of her back before his father guides her out and all of a sudden, Grace isn’t sure if this _is_ a game. 

The entire family’s eyes are on her, burning holes through the lace of her dress, scalding at her skin.

It certainly feels like more than just a silly game of hide and seek with her husband’s family, more than just a trial for her to prove her place in the family, it feels...almost life or death.

Either she passes or she fails, no in-between.

Shaking off the thought, the strange, unpleasant thought that has her hiccuping into her hand— an obvious sign that the champagne has gone to her head— Grace does as instructed by her father-in-law and ducks down another dimly lit hallway, shushing the air when her heels clack against the flooring.

Trailing her fingers across the wood, she takes in the entirety of the house, the way it seems to meld between the old and new, existing somewhere outside the scope of time, and pauses in front of a painting that looks strange in comparison to the rest of the house.

A woman dressed in white smiles down at Grace, the backdrop of the photo placed in what could be the Le Domas’ garden but could also be any other garden really, her blonde hair haloed around her. She’s beautiful, stunning, and _frightened_.

Grace leans forward, palms pressed onto the table the picture sits in front of it, the vase on top rocks ever so slightly and she manages to steady it before it makes a sound. Peering up at the painting, Grace is certain now that its fear, not joy, on the woman’s face.

Her smile is pained serenely, but there’s a tension there, in the corner of her mouth, in the slight curve of her brows, her eyes are shining not in amusement but because she’s scared. 

Of what, Grace can’t tell, it’s too dark in the hallway to get a better look at the rest of the painting.

There’s no signature either, not from what she can see, and a foreboding feeling settles at the base of her spine, tingling its way up to her neck, where the hairs stand on end.

Driven by her need to hide, Grace heads for her room, wanting to change into clothes that feel more _her_ and where she can wait for Alex to find her and hold her and tell her everything is going to be alright.

The world tilts on its axis without warning, her body pulled off its center of gravity, and, suddenly, Alex is beside her, warm and shaking, and she can barely catch her breath because there’s a shot and blood and a dead body and the world once again shifts.

Grace is sure she passed out.

Alex won’t admit it, he’s too busy rushing around the room, looking for the keys and their cellphones, but one moment she’s about to cry and the next she’s leaning against the bed, her fingers curled so tightly into her palms that she’s bleeding from the crescent marks she’s created. 

“I have a bag.” She murmurs, reaching for it, and Alex pauses at the sight of the faded peach Jansport. “Some of the clothes I wanted to bring but couldn’t wear around you family.” It sounds like a hollow excuse, even to her ringing ears, and Alex seems torn for a moment, an expression she’s never seen before flashing across his face before it's gone and her sweet Alex is back.

“We have to move, sweetie.”

By the time they’ve entered the secret passageways, Grace is certain of a few things: that Alex’s family is, in fact, a bunch of raving lunatics, that Alex has some secrets he’s been hiding, and that, somehow, Daniel has been the one telling the truth all along.

Daniel.

Of _all_ people.

She makes a note to thank him later, if she survives that long.

˚°◦

“I don’t understand,” Grace says for the umpteenth time, can practically hear Alex’s molars grinding together in his attempt to keep cool. She’s never quite seen him like this; on-edge and ruffled. 

There’s a tightness around his eyes, a franticness in his gaze. His grip on her hand is tight enough that her bones ache; almost like he’s afraid that once he lets her go, she’ll disappear.

“We don’t have time to get into it right now, okay honey?” Alex sounds patient but she can hear the undercurrent of exasperation, the bit of frustration that leaks in by the way his hand flexes, a telling sign that he’s hiding something.

Dragging her feet, Grace manages to slow him down, enough that he turns to look at her. 

Fear chills her to the bone; an instinct inside of her that’s been long dormant tells her to run and never look back.

She doesn’t, because this is her husband and she has nothing to fear from him. 

Even if his family has apparently been drugged or something.

“Grace,” he frames her face, holding tight, too tight, but she remains still. Pressing their foreheads together, he exhales shakily, “my family… they think the game is real. That if they don’t kill you, we’ll all die.”

Grace’s eyes open quickly, head pulling back but Alex’s grip is strong and she doesn’t go far. “You’re kidding me.”

“No. God, no, I wish.” He looks like a scolded child, blue eyes looking up at her through fair colored lashes, eyes half-lidded, ready to close at the slightest hint of disapproval. 

She keeps her expression clear, opting to focus her energy on easing his hands from her face. She hates feeling stuck, trapped, and needs to breathe. 

Telling him this would only make him worse, she knows that, knows he’ll take it as a reflection against him rather than a need of her own.

Lifting her hands to his, she slides her fingers around them, and he eases his grip, letting go of her face to take her hands in his. “You don’t believe that too do you, Alex?”

“Of course not,” he dismisses the idea with a single shake of his head, “ _of course not,_ sweetie. We just need to get out of here, away from them. They’re toxic.” Grace blames it on the lighting in the passageways and how they cause an unnerving glare across Alex’s eyes; the ocean blue glittering in a way that’s similar to the man she married, yet wholly different.

Wanting— _needing_ — to believe it's the adrenaline mixed with the direness of the situation rather than a window into another side of her husband, Grace squeezes his hands in sympathy, smiles in reassurance. 

They’ll get through this together. “What do we do?”

He looks relieved and guides her over to a place where she can sit and change shoes, the shadows shifting around him once more and he looks like her Alex again.

An unsettling feeling sits between her shoulder blades, nettling at the skin there. She shakes it off. 

Alex is her husband. If she can trust anyone, it’s him.

“I’m going to handle the security system, okay? I just need you to get out as soon as its disabled.” Alex cups her face again, “It’ll all be over soon and then it’ll just be you and me. Just us, like we planned.”

Grace nods, because what else can she do. There’s no speech anyone could’ve given her the night before her wedding to prepare her for this.

Something in the back of her mind reminds her that someone did warn her of this.

She brushes the thought away and focuses on Alex, her lifeline.

When he asks her to repeat his directions back, she does, firmly, and tries to chase away the encroaching hysteria that this is all wrong, that surely this can’t be happening.

“I love you, Grace.” He says it with such conviction she doesn’t have any other choice but to believe him.

He leaves her in the middle of the tunnel, barely keeping her composure, and though a part of her wants to turn and run, she can’t. 

She has nowhere to go anyways.

It feels as if she’s moving through a fog, toeing the line between reality and a nightmare, half-expecting for Alex to wake her up at any time, to tell her she simply just fell asleep.

Fear causes her heart to beat quicker, the sound of it reverberating in her eardrums, a rapid beat that sets her pace. It lodges in her throat when she opens the door and stumbles out, right into the pathways of the people actively trying to murder her.

They look just as shocked as she feels, and she turns, only to run into Emilie, who manages to shoot everywhere but straight ahead and Grace puts a bit more force behind her shove as she knocks her shoulder into her disoriented sister-in-law.

The sound of her tantrum vibrates down the hall, masking the sound of Grace’s own footsteps. Another high pitched screech accompanies Emilie’s fit and then the house falls silent. 

The hunt is back on.

Grace chooses the first open door she can find.

Its inevitable, she realizes, some sort of cosmic interference maybe, that she comes face to face with the one person who told her the truth and whose face she laughed in.

“Daniel.”

He pauses, firelight casting shadows upon his face and irs different than with Alex in the tunnels, rather than that same warning inkling of fear, she a steady calmness surrounds her in his presence. 

Her breath comes in and out in choppy gusts but she doesn’t try to run, doesn’t try to fight.

She’s not afraid of Daniel.

“You were right,” she’s barely able to catch her breath and she watches him with wide eyes as he pours himself a drink. 

“So I was.” He agrees without meeting her gaze.

When he does, she breathes out without realizing she’s been holding her breath. He doesn’t look away and it cements her, keeps her centered, keeps her from giving in to the clawing feeling in her chest.

“Alex will get you out of here, he’s stronger than I am.” Daniel looks outside of the room, down the candle lit hallway, and then sighs. “I have to call the others.” When Grace protests, he takes another long pull from his glass. “I’m really sorry about all of this. It's true what they say, the rich really are different.”

Grace follows his line of sight, over to where his father’s portrait hangs above the fireplace, and _really_ what _is_ it with these people and portraits. Shaking off that thought, Grace attempts to slow her breathing.

He’s the only one she’s been able to trust thus far, the only person who’s been on her side from the very start. She can’t lose Daniel, not now.

“I’ll give you a ten second head start.”

“ _Daniel_.”

He can’t quite meet her eyes when she looks at him, can’t do anything but stare down at his own feet. There’s a weight sagging at his shoulders, defeat twisting a frown onto his features, and she wants to scream at him, wants to hit him until he tells her _why_. 

Instead, she runs.

“Remember what I told you, Grace.” Daniel whispers, a parting word, something she might’ve missed if she hadn’t paused for that lone second by the door, willing him to change his mind. 

Cursing him, she heads down another hallway, narrowly avoiding the sound of heels, and chokes back a distressed sob. 

_“You know, my room isn’t too far from yours, actually.”_ Daniel’s voice, steady despite her certainty that he had to have been drunk beyond his usual means to have the gall to invite her to his room, calls to her, a foggy memory that her shaken thoughts attempt to hold onto. _“When I was young, I had terrible nightmares. My parents moved me away from Alex and Emilie so they wouldn’t keep getting woken up my by screaming. To a room where I could look at the stars. Just down the hallway, take a left, and I’m the door at the end._

Stopping, Grace has to counteract her momentum, her hand braced on a door frame as she steadies herself and gathers her bearings. 

“She’s in the study!” Daniel’s voice calls and she lets a surprised sound spill from her lips, because Daniel isn’t calling them _towards_ her, he’s calling them _away_ from her. 

His room is situated at the other end of the house, in a completely different wing, far away from the study. Far away from the area where his family would seek next.

Grasping at her skirts, Grace runs as quickly as she can, down the hallways, careful to check her turns before she makes them, and she comes to another abrupt halt at the realization that Daniel’s room sits at the end of a hallway, with only one way in and one way out.

If they were to find her there, she’d have nowhere to go; she’d be effectively cornered and caught.

 _Trapped_.

Closing her eyes, Grace breathes in slowly, trying to make sense of her slowly unravelling reality and takes a step forward, and then another, and another, until she’s opening the door into Daniel’s room and slipping inside.

It's a beautiful room, with a four poster bed that seems to be a staple of the Le Domas’ manor, and wide windows which lead out onto a small terrace, the moonlight shining through, filling the room with a silver glow.

Grace isn’t sure how long she’s been standing there, lost in the view of the gardens below, the pond that shimmers and ripples under the reflection of the moon, the twinkling lights of the stars upon an endless night’s sky, but the picturesque setting is ruined by the rapid sound of feet.

Ducking into the closet, Grace quietly shuts the door, leaving open the tiniest crack for her to look out of. 

Daniel appears in the doorway, head turned, the light catching him at an angle that makes the air around him shimmer. He hovers in the doorway for a moment longer, then eases himself into the room, avoiding creaking floorboards and locking the door with a quiet, almost imperceptible _click_.

“Grace?”

Opening the closet door, Grace covers her mouth to muffle her sob but it doesn’t matter because Daniel is moving and she’s pressed into his chest, held close against the scent of brandy and sandalwood and she tries to stop her shaking but she can’t— she just can’t.

“Hey, okay, it’s alright, I’ve got you.” his arms come around her, uncertain at first, but then lock tight, holding her with enough pressure that she can no longer feel the weight on her chest, the block of anxiety that was slowly drowning her, concaving at her ribcage until her bones would fracture and shatter under the pressure, taking her fragile heart with it. “Grace, hey. We gotta move, okay? I’ve got to get you out of here.”

“I kn-know.” Her teeth are shattering and Grace guesses from the few emergency medical classes she’s taken that shock has begun to set in. 

It's all fucked up, the entire thing is fucked up. This is the one day that should be the happiest of her life but has instead turned into the worst— a waking nightmare she can’t seem to escape no matter how hard she tries, how much she bleeds.

Daniel’s hands are moving up and down her arms in what may be an attempt to either comfort or warm her shaking form. “We’ve got to get you to Alex.”

“Alex lied to me.” Grace pulls away from him, arms coming to wrap around herself, a move that she learnt long ago kept her safe from the touch of others. “He lied to me, Daniel. He didn’t tell me anything about this, about your family, about this stupid fucking game!”

He looks away from her, eyes following the details of the comforter rather than face her. “He did what he thought was best.”

She shakes her head, turning towards the terrace doors, “at least have the decency to look me in the eye when you lie to me. Because you know that’s not _fucking true._ He said it himself. If he didn’t propose, I would’ve left. If he told me about his family, I would've left.” Putting aside her pride, Grace turns back to Daniel. She can see the confusion on his face, the bit of disappointment towards Alex that he’s been trying his best to hide. 

They all have their roles to play, she’s come to realize. Daniel’s isn’t to be the hero, yet its him in this room with her while Alex plays God in the security room.

“He’s right, of course. I wanted _more_. I wanted a family, I wanted this... to belong.” Opening her arms wide, she moves in a circle, “I wanted to be a Le Domas so badly. I _asked_ for this.”

Daniel’s touch is hesitant, then firm when she doesn’t move away. Grasping her arm, he tugs her until she’s facing him, his eyes clear, no sign of the effects of alcohol, or the flickering of a lie about to be told. “You couldn’t have known our family has some sort of ancient blood pact with Satan.” When Grace laughs, a brittle, broken sound, he reaches up to cup her cheek. “I like you, Grace.

He pauses and Grace can hear the sound of crickets in the distance. “But, I’m not the guy you think I am.”

“ _Don’t_ say that,” Grace’s voice is a harsh whisper. He’s looking away, lost in his own thoughts, a small tremor racing through his hand. She wants so badly for him to understand what she’s trying to say, “you’re a good, good guy, Daniel.”

“I shouldn't let my family die because I want to get you out.”

Pulling away, Grace has to fight to keep her voice pitched in a whisper. “No one is going to die tonight. This whole thing is _bullshit_.”

In the moonlight, Daniel’s features taken on an unearthly look; a man half hidden by darkness, willing to reject the light and it shakes her to her core.

Grace pulls him forward, so that she can see all of him, and he goes, stepping towards the doors with her, under the white glow of the waning moon. 

“I know what it's like for them to be proud of me. It cost me a bit of my soul that night we played hide and seek for the first time...” His breath comes out in a loud exhale through his nose. “I keep telling myself that I did it to keep Alex safe, but, honestly, sometimes I wonder if I did it so my parents would look at me the way they always looked at him.” When Grace does nothing more than squeeze his hand, he chuckles in a deprecating way. “I went out of my way from then on to be as much of a disappointment to them as I could be.” A wry smile flits across his mouth, “I’ve done a pretty damn good job of it too.”

“Have you ever talked to Alex about any of this? He loves you. I’m sure he’d understand.”

“No, no. _That_ is impossible. Not only would he not understand but that night…” Daniel pauses, as if he’s uncertain of the words he’s about to say, “they all looked at him differently. Alex. They looked at him and saw something I didn’t— to me he was still my little brother.”

“So you just held it all in instead? How is that fair?”

“If life was fair your in-laws wouldn’t be trying to kill you,” Daniel drolls, his ever present cynicism coating each word. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Maybe because if I die, someone should know the truth.”

Grace tilts her head and finds its easy to rest it on Daniel’s shoulder. “No one is going to die,” she reiterates, more forcefully than before.

Her eyes are so heavy, all she wants to curl up and rest, to shower and watch the blood slip down the drain, to burn her dress and this house and never, ever look back. 

She wants to get out — _alive_ — most of all.

“I’ve been told I’ve got a trusting face.”

“It’s the eyes,” Daniel voice is soft, so quiet she has to tilt her face upwards, “they pull you in. Suddenly, it’s the only thing you can see. Endless amounts of blue.” His jaw flexes, “the first thing I noticed about you were your eyes.”

The admission is bittersweet; if it was another place, another time where their hands aren’t weighed down by rings, she would’ve smiled and closed the distance between them, learned the way he tasted, let him taste her too.

Now, she only sighs, it sounds bone deep and weary. “If I keep them closed will you lie to me, Daniel? Will you tell me I’ll survive?”

“I won’t lie to you, Grace.” Daniel’s voice sparks to life, clearer than she’s ever heard it, losing some of the disingenuous quality that she’d chalked up to copious amounts of alcohol and a clearly unhappy marriage. “But, you are going to make it out of here alive.”

“Oh, really?”

He smiles and its real, genuine, eyes alight with a sense of vigor that rekindles her own fire. “Someone has to burn it all down, right?”

◦°˚

“Just go downstairs, Grace. It’ll be easy, Grace.” She manages to sneak down another hallway, overly cognizant of every little creak, every muted step of her feet against the hardwood, despite Daniel’s assurances that he’ll figure a way to gather his family so she can escape outside through the newly unlocked doors unnoticed.

Grace knows Alex managed to unlock them for her— for _them_ , if he’s to be believed— but its hard for her to wrap her head around it...around all of it.

She knows it's probably the coward’s way out, but she shoves it all (the questions, the doubts, the dawning sense that maybe Alex has been hiding something more significant than just family secrets and their petulance for sacrificing goats and murder from her) to the back of her mind for the time being.

All she needs to focus on right now is the plan. She can handle her husband after.

The plan is simple, which is of course why it goes to complete shit in a spectacular fashion.

Reality comes crashing down around her somewhere in between throwing hot water at Stevens and crushing Dora, the not-maid-maybe-mistress, in the dumbwaiter.

She manages to find a bathroom and empty the contents of her stomach, her hands shaking against the bowl.

The toilet smells like chemically produced lavender and it makes her sick again.

Unfortunately, there’s no way to be quietly ill, and she’s braced for one, if not all, of the Le Domases to come through the door.

The bathroom remains silent and Grace wipes her face clean, not bothering to care about her dress any longer. 

Once this night is over, she’s going to tear it to shreds and watch it burn.

It takes her a few tries to get the window open, its stuck from years of disuse and finally she scrambles out, onto the ledge. It's a long drop and vertigo kicks in, pressing her flush against the stone wall.

She sways, holding onto the brick, nails scraping as she steadies herself and forces herself to focus. 

It's not the vertigo, ultimately, that leaves her breathless. It’s the sound of Helene’s fervent ramblings and nothing seems to add up anymore. 

She knows Alex has been distant from his family even before they met; they’d remained a sore subject, a topic that would instantly turn his mood sour, quickly bring a conversation to an abrupt halt, leaving her feeling as if she’s somehow wandered into deeper waters and forgotten how to swim.

Eventually, she learned to pick her choose her battles wisely and stopped mentioning them. 

He seemed better, happier, more like himself once she did.

Until they got engaged. 

Until she heard him on the phone, his voice different, cool and sharp; she couldn’t make out the words only that he was on the phone with his brother, the only one of his family he willingly spoke to, and that the family wanted him to come back, to come home.

Alex refused. 

She knew the Le Domas manor wasn’t a place he felt comfortable, a place he could call home, this much he told her during their late night conversations at the very start of their relationship. 

At first, at the very start, she assumed Alex was an easy read; appearing to be that sort of disarmingly handsome which made it seem as if he wore his emotions on his sleeve. That at any time she could simply look at him and know what’s going on in his head.

Now, standing on the ledge of her in-laws house, staring out at the perfectly manicured garden belonging to a seemingly perfect family, Grace realizes that everything was a lie.

A slight of hand trick to make her believe she knew all of him; the good, the bad, the ugly.

Feeling sick once again, Grace forces herself to take deep breaths, holding the air in her lungs until it burns, then releasing it slowly through her nose. 

It all seems surreal; Alex never separated from his family because he was afraid of _them_ , he did it because he was afraid of _himself_.

He used her and her rose-colored vision; saw his reflection through her eyes rather than his own. 

Used her love as a balm to cure a non-existent affliction. 

It’s a severe blow to her pride to realize she’s been played the fool.

Grace stares up at the sky and wonders if this is what serial killer’s wives feel like when they see their husbands being carted off in ‘cuffs by police. 

Betrayed, violated, and dirty— the kind that can’t be scrubbed away with some soap and a prayer, the kind that taints your soul and irrevocably alters a piece of you.

Once everything starts to make sense; her situation seems to go from bad to worse in the blink of the eye.

Suddenly, the veil has been lifted from her eyes and she can see it all for what it truly is. 

This family is more than just religious fanatics who love playing games, but devout cultists, completely and utterly devoted to a little black box that tells them when it’s okay to kill people. 

It's a rot that’s spread throughout their family, infecting even the youngest (and, _seriously_ , what parent teaches an eight year old how to fire a gun?).

As Grace spins through the air, a symphony playing around her, glass glinting in iridescent sparkles throughout the inside of the catapulting vehicle, she marvels at the sheer absurdity of her situation.

Somehow (possibly having to do with the universe’s continuous plan to mock her or maybe even a slight probability that this whole night has been orchestrated, some sort of elaborate test by Le Bail) she survives the crash.

(She hasn’t ruled any options out just yet, though Devil in the form of fire and brimstone controlling a family through a game box seems far fetched even for the most eccentric one-percenters.)

Not entirely sure if the universe is working with her or against her, Grace can’t help but breathe out a sigh of relief at the sight of Daniel emerging from the trees, his rifle slung across his shoulder.

Her lungs ache. She’s pretty sure she’s broken a rib or two in the crash. 

He gives her a spiel about wanting peace and quiet and she has to bite her tongue from retorting that he easily could’ve found that in the garden instead. 

There’s something different about him, a tenseness to his posture, his frown lines deeper, more thoughtful. 

Something is weighing heavily on his mind.

“Daniel.” She tries, needing some sort of assurance that it's going to be okay, they’ll figure it out together, and he’s still on her side.

He shakes his head, its slight, barely noticeable, but she’s hyper-focused on him and she catches on instantly. His eyes flicker to the tree line and her stomach sinks. 

They’re not alone.

“Daniel,” Grace’s voice wobbles; she hates how weak she sounds, how her voice trembles, “you don’t want to kill me.”

“No, Grace. I don’t.” He reaffirms, eyes burning bright despite the darkness surrounding him. 

She knows she won’t make it out of here, not like this. Broken pleas fill the empty air around them, a last ditch effort to remind his family that she’s human, too, that her life is one worth saving.

If they kill her, they’ll damn themselves in the process.

Her gut tells her that they’re too far gone to care.

Daniel comes closer, her heart skipping at the proximity, and she thinks they might be alone now that he’s stepping towards her, his eyes locked on her own, as if there’s no one else there but the two of them.

She’s not sure what she expects him to do; grab her hand with a promise that she’s going to be okay, that it’s all going to be alright, even if it's not going to plan?

It's not like Daniel to do any of that, yet she craves the contact regardless. 

Her skin is cold, clammy, and she’s read about the early stages of hypothermia, wonders if this is what it feels like.

It might be in the midst of summer, right at the peak where humidity is at a highest and the sun’s heat seems to last even after night has fallen, but Grace swears she’s going to start losing feeling in the tips of her fingers and tops of her toes any second now.

She doesn’t really remember what happens after Daniel does close the distance between them. His voice hypnotic, lulling her into a sense of comfort and ease, blinding her to the gun being raised until she feels her head snap back, pain shooting down her neck.

Nothing but blissful darkness follows.

When she wakes, her stomach rolls, body feeling stiff and oddly cramped, and her nightmare comes to fruition. She’s trapped, tied down to the table and panic floods her veins, her instincts going into overdrive. 

Twisting and turning, she ignores the burns of the rope against her skin, refusing to die without a fight.

The chanting around her grows louder and she hates their stupid robes, hates that they’ve added additional candlelight to the room that makes it seem more intimate than sacrificial. 

She has half a mind to wonder if they’re going to force her into a creepy cult orgy instead.

Eventually, Tony’s voice hits its crescendo, his hands raised high and then there’s a strange gurgling sound to her right, followed by a symphony of moans and groans, and Grace starts to realize something is wrong right when her right arm becomes free.

Daniel’s hood slips down to his neck and unlike the rest of his family, he’s not doubled-over in pain, blood colored wine spilling from his lips. 

He gets her untied and off the table before Becky can swipe at her, his mother making it two feet before she crumbles to the ground, holding her stomach.

Grabbing her hand, he pulls her out of the room, making up for her unsteady feet with his sheer force of momentum. “Someone had to come up with a plan while you were off galavanting in the woods,” he tells her after explaining that _no, he did not kill his family, he just made sure they’ll be shitting for a week instead._

She wants to laugh but she’s afraid it if she does she might not stop.

“I was in a car accident after being shot by your _eight year old nephew_.” Grace chooses to focus on the sheer absurdity of him, how he manages to get under her skin even during a time of sheer turmoil. 

It's not like they’re running for their lives or anything.

“What is it with this family and guns?” Daniel sounds oddly offended, and Grace drives her finger into his chest because it makes her feel better.

“Also! You could’ve told me instead of hitting me with the butt of your gun, by the fucking way!” She hisses, yanking their intertwined hands to get his attention. He looks over his shoulder, down to her, a wry smile on his lips.

“How would I have conveyed _‘I’m going to need you to pretend to pass out for me’_ exactly? I’m pretty sure there’s no way to act that out with charades.”

Grace lets him pull her into an alcove, their bodies flush together, and she can smell the spice of his cologne under the sickly sweet cocktail of alcohol and sweat. 

It settles her slightly, that and the reaffirmation of what she knew all along: that Daniel has always been her side, whether he knew it or not. “I would’ve rather been playing charades, thank you _very_ much.”

“What you’re not enjoying being hunted?” He retorts blithely, ignoring the jab of her elbow into his ribs. “I, for one, am having a great time. Really makes up for skipping cardio this week at the gym.”

“Has anyone ever told you how irritating you are?”

Daniel looks at her in mock astonishment for a second, then his lips quirk upwards, just the tiniest bit. She wonders what it's like to see Daniel genuinely smile.

She doubts it happens very often, his smile reminiscent of a passing comet, blink and you’ll miss it. 

“Not to my face, no.”

“Oh,” Grace bites back a smile of her own, “well. Now you know.”

They round the corner and Grace finds herself being shoved behind Daniel without warning. She trips over her two feet, her one twisted ankle throbbing painfully. 

He’s blocking her completely, his hands held out in front of him in a peacemaking gesture towards whoever is in their way. 

Grace looks around him and instantly backs farther away.

Charity stands in the hallway, a gun pointed at her husband’s heart.

The universe in all its doubly mocking glory seems to slow everything for those next few moments. Daniel’s voice is calm and steady, more lucid than she’s heard him all night, in an attempt to reason with his wife.

The last thing she hears is his alarmed inhale, followed by the echoing sound of the gun.

Grace sees him go down, watches him crumple to the ground, and her world shatters at her feet.

She moves without thinking, ruled by an anger that has her grasping the gun with both hands, bullet wound be damned.

Another shot goes off, then another.

Charity stumbles over the rug, her heel catching on the edge and Grace takes advantage of her shifting momentum to strong-arm the gun from her. 

She steps back and meets Charity’s gaze cooly, the two of them sizing each other up.

Her hand never shakes as she pulls the trigger.

Blood spatters along the mural against the wall, pinks and reds decorating it like an abstract splatter-painting piece, and Charity’s body falls as swiftly as her husband’s, landing on the floor with a disturbing squelch.

Tossing the gun, Grace skids over to Daniel, hands pressing against his neck. There’s blood pooling out from under him, his hand icy under hers, the two of them attempting to hold him together, and she can’t help but repeat his name like a mantra, a prayer, a plea.

His mouth forms a single command and she steps away, his blood dripping from her hands. Her own heart a ragged, open wound.

Leaving him there costs her something, a bit of her soul, a bit of her heart. She presses her lips tight to muffle her cries, blinks the haze of tears out of her vision and limps forward.

It seems to make sense that she wouldn’t get far; despite the Le Domases’s rampant incompetence, luck seems to be on their side.

Her arms ache from beating the shit out of her in-laws, leaving them bleeding on the floor, gasping, and if they die, she hopes they suffer the way Daniel did, she hopes they feel exactly what he felt because they deserve no less.

“Grace.”

Startled, she turns, brandishing her weapon, ready for another fight, and her arms shake when she sees Alex starting towards her.

He’s covered in blood, bright, wet splotches on it and she knows whose blood it is. 

She fights back the urge to scream, barely manages to focus, her vision blurring again, a warning that she’s pushed herself as far as she can go.

“I’m sorry,” she’s apologizing not for what she’s done, not for the blood on her hands, but for the blood on his.

Despite it all, Alex had loved Daniel, and Daniel had loved Alex.

Killing Charity ebbs some of her anger. The rest remains, the only thing keeping her from collapsing and giving up entirely. Her anger towards Alex, towards his whole fucking family.

_“If you do this,” the words she aimed towards Daniel haunt her, “he’ll never forgive you.”_

“I’m sorry too,” he sags a bit at the words, practically curling into himself. The weight of his brother’s death seems too much for him to bear.

She can never forgive Alex for what he’s done.

Pressing the back of her good hand to her mouth, she sees the blood on her hands, a mix of Le Domas blood. It makes her stomach churn.

She feels tainted, almost.

“There was so much blood. I tried to— I _tried_.” Grace’s lips tremble and Alex looks up at her in surprise.

“You didn’t shoot him?”

“Who? Daniel?” Grace shakes her head, her hands are trembling, none of it quite making sense. Its as if the bounds of reality have extended too far for even her to grasp anymore, the threads spilling from her fingertips. “No, of course not. Why would I?”

“I wouldn’t blame you, Grace.” Alex takes a step towards her; he looks so sympathetic, so understanding. It's easy to believe the lie, to fall for the facade, so easy that she has to remind herself that he’s been lying to her. “You’ve been through so much already.”

She balks at the idea; she might’ve shot Charity but that bitch deserved it, after what— 

The image of blood coating Daniel’s hand, her hand resting over his thrumming but faint pulse, his mouth forming one final word, rocks through her. 

She wraps her arms around her stomach; feels unbearably cold and horribly alone.

Alex murmurs her name pleadingly and she has to admit it, he plays the part of the desperately in love husband so very well.

Grace finds herself taking a step away from him; the Alex she’s been holding on to morphs in front of her eyes, almost as if she’s witnessing the birth of a new person, or maybe just the emergence of someone who was dormant the entire time.

He follows, though Grace is certain he’s unaware of the movement himself.

“Daniel tried to help me,” she explains, not wanting to tell him the entire story, the way Daniel attempted to warn her long before she stood before a priest and pledged her love and loyalty to a man worthy of deserving of her.

It’s just too damn bad that man never existed.

Alex tilts his head, as if he doesn’t believe what she’s saying, as if he’s _humoring her_.

“He did. He really did.”

“Whatever he said was a lie, Grace. Daniel doesn’t help anyone but himself,” the smile on Alex’s face doesn’t seem real, it's too fake, too much lip, almost as if he’s bearing his unnaturally white teeth. “He’s my brother, and I love him, but he’s never been the one to help anyone else out.”

Grace pulls away, flinching when Alex’s grip tightens though he seems entirely unaware of how much pressure he’s using, his fingers white against her own reddened skin. She can’t feel the pain, every bit of her is numb, running on adrenaline and a deep, instinctive need to survive. 

She can feel her palms begin to sweat, her stomach begins to twist queasily, and everything is starting to shift on its axis. She’s not sure how he looks so calm when the words coming out of his mouth are like earthquakes to her heart. 

“What about the last time your family played this game?” She bites out, the words sharper than the iron post that drew blood down her back.“The night he saved you.”

Alex looks down at her, his expression unreadable, and Grace finally lets herself wonder who it is she actually married. Sweet, tender, attentive Alex, or this stranger wearing his face, his features harsh, his actions laden with anguish. 

Everything inside of her has shredded into tiny little ribbons, leaving her brittle to the bone. She’s not sure what’s real anymore, what was fantasy and what was reality. 

Grace is sure now that she’s going to throw-up from the sheer pain her stomach is in. 

“He told you about that night?”

“Not in detail,” she murmurs, not wanting to let on all that she knows. They’re playing a new game now; a different, yet no less her dangerous game. It's not just her life on the line anymore, Grace realizes with a clarity that reshapes the world around her: its her heart too. 

“I barely remember it, honestly. We wanted to play the game, wanted to be adults. Emilie was still too young, she fell asleep not long after we were put in our rooms. Daniel was always inventive, he picked the locks and we snuck out.” Alex turns and his profile catches the firelight, and for the first time Grace’s heart doesn’t catch. “He hid me, then told my family where he was, Helene’s groom. I remember my mom telling him how proud she was and then…” 

Grace tries her attempt at sounding gentle, soothing. “Then what?”

The fire flickers the corners of the hearth, as if trying to extend its reach, and Alex watches it, mesmerized, “I saw him, Mr. Le Bail. Or maybe I was tired and I saw what I wanted to see.” He adds quickly, looking down at Grace, searching for something. 

She tries to keep her eyes from watering, hoping that her sympathetic smile doesn’t falter, doesn’t expose the way she’s trembling. “You were probably tired.”

Alex looks relieved, his shoulders sagging slightly. He vehemently nods, “we were kids. It was past our bedtime and so much had already happened. I’m not like them,” he swears to her, the conviction in his voice a forced thing, “I’m not.”

“Of course not, Alex.” Cupping his cheek, Grace stifles the urge to claw out his eyes. “You got out.”

“I did. I left. No one else left, but I did. I left them and I found you. You made me better.” He looks at her like he’s found a new religion, like her love will absolve him of his sins. “Honey, you made me better.”

She swallows her bile with a winning grin and lets him push a stray tendril of her hair out of her face. “That’s why you couldn’t tell me.”

“Exactly,” Alex looks completely relieved, his head bowing forward, “you have to understand, Grace. I couldn’t lose you. You’re not like Fitch or Charity, the money doesn’t matter to you.”

A frown pulls at her face, causing her bruised cheek to ache. “They knew?”

“No, no.” Alex pauses, considers. “I think Daniel told Charity as a last ditch effort really. He said she didn’t even blink when he told her, just accepted that if she didn’t pull the card, she would be a Le Domas and that was enough for her.” He touches her cheek again, gently, reverently, “but you’re not like her.”

“No,” Grace draws out the word, her thoughts jumbled, mind trying to piece together what she knows now, “no, Alex. I’m really not.” His eyes, so sorrowful, seem to brighten and Grace adjusts her position, her injured hand curled into her chest, and the other slamming into her husband’s face.

Alex immediately recoils, surprise and anger flaring in his eyes. His hand cup his nose where blood is leaking out from his fingers, down onto his wrinkled shirt. “Jesus fucking Christ, Grace!”

“Really, Alex? Don’t you worship Satan in this _fucking house?_ ” She backs up, moving towards the door and Alex seems to realize what's going on rather quickly, marching towards her and forgetting all about his bloodied, and slightly crooked, nose. 

“Grace, sweetie,” there’s a fever in his eyes, desperation evident, “please. You can’t leave me, okay? I need you to stay with me, to help me be better. I almost came back here before, before I met you, but then I met you and it all made sense. Don’t you understand?”

“No! _No!_ I don’t understand any of this, Alex! You lied to me, and the worst part is if I pulled another card— checkers or chess or backgammon— I never would’ve found out about this fucking game!”

Alex raises his hands in a gesture that makes him seem as if he’s approaching a wild, caged animal. Perhaps she is. Perhaps this night has irrevocably changed her. “I would’ve told you, honey. Maybe not now, but one day.”

“When?” Grace’s voice is higher than it should be, someone will undoubtably hear her but it doesn’t matter now, because when it comes down to it, his family might be cult fanatics who believe in sacrifices and worshipping a man their great-grandfather may have met or just fucking made up, but its Alex who betrayed her in the end. 

He convinced her that he loved her but in truth he only ever truly loved himself. 

He didn’t love her, he just couldn’t give up her love for him. She was his addiction, not his cure. 

“When our kids got married?” He visibly flinches at that and she snarls, “Huh? Then Alex? Would you fucking tell me the truth then?”

He doesn’t respond, his entire body is still, eyes blank, lip trembling and Grace doesn’t know if its out of sadness or anger. 

She doesn’t quite care either.

“I don’t think you were ever going to tell me, you selfish _fucking bastard_.” She’s worked up now, anger mixing with her adrenaline to create a dangerous cocktail of ardent fury.

Alex’s own anger flashes in his eyes, a bit more tempered than her own, but then again he hasn’t spent the entire night being hunted, shot at, and almost sacrificed.

The _asshole_.

“I loved you, Grace. All I wanted was for us to get as far away from my family as we could so we could be happy. Can’t you see that? How happy I would’ve made you?”

The past tense slaps her, a knife to the chest which hurts more than any of her open wounds.

“Until one of Emilie’s kids got married.” There’s a sense of defeat sapping bits of energy out of her, the righteous anger still curls at her fingertips, but her body is losing adrenaline; fatigue weighing her down more than the anxiety in her chest or the pain that’s become a dull throbbing under her skin. “We all have to play the fucking game, right _honey?_ It's a goddamn family tradition _._ ”

This time he steps away from her, rather than towards her. His hands fall to his sides, mouth parting slightly. The glassy look in his eyes eases, the thin veil of franticness lifting slightly.

He looks pale, younger somehow, and despite the fact that this night seems to have aged her ten years, it seems to have regressed him back to that young, scared boy she imagined him to be during that other fateful game night. “You never were going to stay with me after this, were you? You were going to leave me.” 

Grace closes her eyes, her mouth suddenly feeling as if its filled with cotton balls, making her words difficult. “I don’t _know_ , Alex. Maybe...maybe I would’ve forgiven if it hadn't have gotten this far.”

“Just maybe?”

“Just maybe.” She agrees, feeling so incredibly tired. Her body is quaking with the aftershocks of his words, fault lines appearing around her heart, everything violently shaken upside-down.

A creak to her left has her swinging, coming in contact with something soft and warm, and the person is knocked back into the wall, momentarily stunned.

Grace stumbles for a moment and the lure of gravity attempts to pull her down, down, down, down, until all she can do is fall.

Steadying herself, she kicks Fitch in the balls and takes off down the hallway. 

Her eyes sting, a mix of unshed tears and fear.

“Grace!” Alex calls after her, a siren’s call directed at her once naive heart. Only she knows better now, knows better to trust him, now that he knows the truth. 

She would’ve left him; and that’s the honest, horrible truth. 

At least they both know. No matter how this ends, it never would’ve resulted in a happily ever after.

Knowing what she knows now, she would’ve picked up that bag Daniel had her pack and ran without once looking back.

There would’ve been nothing Julia Roberts about her runaway bride.

Grace pauses, arms wrapping around her stomach, and she can’t stop herself from being sick. Her stomach constricts, attempting to push more out but there’s nothing left. She’s empty and cold, shaking in the hallway while her in-laws (and now her husband as well, _can’t forget that_ ) are trying to kill her.

Sucking in a gasping, choked sound, she ducks into an open door and shuts it behind her. It takes her too long to realize the room she’s in is the study, again.

This time there’s no Daniel this time to provide an ill-expressed but good-intentioned diversion.

“Fuck me.” It’s a hiss through clenched teeth, the room lacking both people and weapons, and Grace stumbles a bit over the carpet, catching herself with her good hand on the back of a chair. “ _Fuck me running_.”

The noise is dulled by the carpet itself, and Grace tenses, expecting the door to fling open at any time and the Le Domases to find her with their lanterns and pitchforks.

Nothing happens. The room remains blissfully silent and Grace breathes out in a single shudder.

 _I’m not going to die in this house. I’m not going to die like this._ She thinks, pacing around the room as quietly as possible, a candelabra (because those are still a thing in the Le Domas’ manor) held in her good hand, her knuckles slowly turning white at the increasing tension.

“I’m not going to die like this.” She says out loud this time, because it bears repeating, for the universe to know. 

Pressing her fingers to her eyes, she holds down until she sees the faint lights behind endless black. 

She’s driven by an anger, a feeling of resentment, a bitter brimstone taste, ashen on her tongue. It coats her veins, intoxicating her, a disease that seems to have infiltrated her bloodstream, straight down to the marrow of her bones.

She’ll live to spite him.

Her dying would be too easy of a fate for Alex; she has no doubts he would play the mourning widow well. The tragic look in his eyes which had reeled her in tonight and subsequently destroyed her with a simple press of his fingers against her throat. 

If she had her way, Alex would never get to remarry, never get to experience that commitment, love, and joy, ever again. 

Somewhere, deep in the confines of her mind, the parts of her she had closed off, redirected towards solely keeping her alive, sparks.

Voices echo down the hall, Charity’s trill accompanied by Becky’s firm, even tones. 

Without much thought, Grace shoves the candelabra between the two door handles. Then two pool sticks and the sideboard, noise be damned. 

Something shatters in another room but Grace pays it no mind. Turning, she moves quickly to Tony’s desk, rummaging through the drawers. 

There’s a hidden compartment under the bottom drawer and she frowns when it rattles but doesn’t open. 

“Where’s the damn key?” She yanks again just to get some of her unfettering energy out. “Where’s the damn key!”

Seeing as her in-laws seem to be inexperienced killers, Grace puts herself in Tony’s shoes and reaches up under the desk. Sure enough, attached under velcro, a slim key sits.

“Psychopathic morons,” she mutters, unlocking the drawer as the door to the study rattles.

She freezes, hand hovering over a stack of folders, no weapon in sight but the door remains still. 

Footsteps begin walking down the hallway, away from her, and she lets out a shaky breath. 

Moving quickly, she flips through the folders, finds the one labeled _Alex_ and laughs.

The sound is hoarse, a bit manic, and Grace wants to vomit and cry, maybe both at the same time. With trembling fingers she grabs the thin piece of paper, just as the door rattles again, more force being put behind it than the first time.

“How was I supposed to know you didn’t lock the door?” Fitch complains, and Grace marvels at how Fitch made it this far in life.

The idea of him having to play hide and seek makes her snort. Despite how horribly bad the Le Domases are at sacrificing people, Fitch would’ve been a hell of a better choice. 

He would’ve been presented in a platter to Le Bail in under an hour, tops.

“None of the other doors are locked, Fitch. Why would I lock just this one?” Tony sounds exasperated, on the edge of another whirlwind of theatrics, and Becky’s “calm down, dear” is muffled by his loud grunts as he pulls at the doors.

“Grace? Grace, honey, are you in there?” Alex sounds worried, as if he wasn’t intently trying to capture her and sacrifice her to a lesser demon or some version of the Devil, who may or may not be real. 

They might not be wearing physical masks, not like the ones Georgie had been gleefully showing off only hours prior, but Grace is finally able to see her husband for who he truly is.

A spineless, selfish man, who made a home in her ribcage and a sacrifice out of her heart.

“Sweetie, you need to open the door, okay?”

“Rot in hell.” She snarls and pretends she feels nothing at the sound of his voice.

Grace ends up chuckling a bit hollowly once she realizes they upgraded the fireplace after minutes of attempting to find a lighter or some matches. 

All she has to do is flip the switch. 

_Fucking rich people._

The embers come alight, flickering at her feet, firestones dancing before her eyes. She tosses the paper in, watches the edges burn and crumble, leaving nothing but smoke rising from the remnants.

It’s a bit prophetic in a sense.

The door busts open as the final bit blackens and dissipates. 

Fitch is noticeably out of breath, panting while Emilie praises him on a job well done. Both Tony and Helene have a manic glint in their eyes, weapons at the ready. 

Becky and Alex look...the least bloodthirsty. Solemn. The only ones who seem to have come to terms with what they’re about to do.

Which is _killing her. By the fucking way._

Becky’s gaze is cool, collected, and slightly pitying. Grace hates her just a bit more because of that.

Alex takes a step forward, blocking his father, and Grace doesn’t miss the knife in his hand, the set of his jaw, the way he seems to believe they have the upper hand.

Satisfaction burns in the base of her spine at his crooked nose. It curls at her lips, twisting until she’s smiling, a devilish kind of grin.

He aims for her and disastrously misses. She’s still got some adrenaline left in her.

“What are you going to do? Murder me, honey?” She croons, gesturing to the space between them, to her already bloodied dress, the fucking hole in her hand. “Because you no longer can sacrifice me.”

It's taunting; daring. Grace isn’t sure why she’s provoking them but every word out of her mouth seems to move her closer towards the edge.

“And why not?” Helene leers. 

“Because we’re not married.” Grace pulls off her rings, tosses them onto the table, the diamonds catching the firelight as they slide across the polished wood. “Not legally. Not anymore.” When Alex continues to stare at her, unblinking, frozen still, she just laughs. Laughs and laughs. “Next time you plan to murder a new member of the family, at least make sure you’re dad files the marriage certificate first.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Tony throws his hands up, “how is this even possible?”

“Does it even affect the game though?” Fitch asks, shifting his crossbow over his shoulder, Emilie peers around him, looking skittish and wild in the eyes. 

Whatever drugs she’s on now makes her even more jittery than she was before, her eyes darting around the room in an obvious sense of paranoia, and Grace is silently relieved someone had the common sense to take the gun away from her.

“I don’t see why it would,” Helene’s stare is sharp, her tone nefarious; she sounds like a poor imitation of a Disney villain. The thought makes Grace snort, earning her a disdainful glare. “She pulled the card.”

“Yes, back when she was married into the family.” Becky’s looking at Grace differently, the corners of her lips twitch, and there’s something akin to respect glimmering in her eyes. “She’s not family anymore. She no longer belongs to us.”

Becky’s approval tastes like ash on her tongue.

Grace hastily looks away, not due to what she sees in Becky’s eyes, because she could give a flying fuck how Becky views her now that she’s not trying to actively skewer with arrows, but because her eyes are so much like Daniel’s, dark and fathomless.

“So, what,” Emilie speaks up, fingers tapping rapidly against the back of one of the chairs, “she’s just, like, one of the maids? She doesn’t count?” When Grace raises her brows, Emilie looks slightly abashed, “Sorry.”

“Better than being compared to a goat.” Grace directs her comment at Tony, watches an irritated flush creep up his neck, his mouth opening and closing. 

Becky places a firm hand on Tony’s arm, silencing his tirade, then looks to Helene. “The game is over.”

“The game cannot be over. A sacrifice is needed, else we all perish!”

“Oh, give it up _already_ , Helene.” Tony crows, dropping his own gun on the table, hands running through his hair. “She outsmarted us. Alex’s _fucking_ ,” he waves towards her and she gives him a mirthless bow, “ _little harlot_ managed to outmaneuver us at our own game! This is incredibly embarrassing, you do realize that don’t you? She’s just a— a nobody!”

Grace looks at all of them individually, they look incredibly lost and slightly pathetic, all standing around in a semi-circle as dawn begins to spill through the open curtains. Only Fitch looks relieved. “Did Alex never tell you what my job is?”

“You work for some environmental company.” Becky responds, a calculating look in her eye, her need for control leaving her floundering for something, anything, to give her that semblance of having the upper-hand once again.

“That’s right,” Grace slows her words purposely, just to see the reactions on their faces, “as a member of their legal counsel.”

“Goddamnit Alex, you married a _lawyer?_ ” Fitch looks at his brother-in-law as if he’s well and truly insane. 

Alex looks from Grace to the rest of his family, shrugs. “At least she wasn’t after my money.”

Tony looks a bit purple around the face, his eyes bloodshot, and Grace is certain he’s having some sort of cardiac episode. “Ah, yes, where is Charity?” 

“Dead.” Grace’s hand is aching, her back itching uncomfortably, the bits and pieces of her that she’s been steadily holding together in an attempt to make it through the night are slowly falling apart. “I shot her.”

“You shot her?” Becky looks well and truly floored now, her eyes wide, and she staggers a bit, hand reaching out to rest on the table. 

Grace eyes the ring on her right hand, wonders if they’re similar sizes.

“She killed Daniel.” Her voice is flat, emotionless and that’s her breaking point apparently. Talking about the death of a man who’s nothing more than a stranger to her is the tip of her emotional iceberg. 

Her attention shifts away from the disorienting sound of the Le Domases bickering to the morning sun peaking through the branches of the trees, illuminating the once picturesque setting of her wedding venue, rays reaching out and stretching across her skin, warm and bright.

Lifting her injured hand, she watches the first ray of sun cast light on the gruesome nature of her bandage, the dried blood and bits of flesh that have become stuck in the lace.

“ _Fuck_.”

To her right, someone screams and Grace manages to turn just in time to see the flesh burn off of Helene’s hand, the axe hitting the ground with a singular clunk.

“The curse!” Emilie trills, clutching onto Fitch, who moves his wife in front of him to act as a human shield. 

Chivalry, as it turns out, has long been dead and buried out in the Le Domas’ barn.

Emilie’s screams turn endless as the sun makes its way through the room, consuming the darkness and the Le Domases as it goes. 

Its Becky who seems to accept her fate, never once moving, her eyes closed the entire time. The sun flays her alive and she never makes a single sound.

All it all, it’s not what Grace expected. 

Spontaneous human combustion may’ve been a bit more more apropos.

Alex turns to her pleading; promises and swears to repent spilling from his lips, his hands reaching out towards her. 

Grace swears she can see his eyes watering. 

Only she doesn’t know if the tears are for their relationship, or for himself.

The light encompasses him last and Grace watches unflinchingly as his flesh slides from his body, his wedding ring rolling towards her until it meets the front of her shoe.

She bends down to grab it and when she stands, there’s a figure of molten reds and golds sitting in one of the chairs in front of the fire. The figure looks at her and Grace swears she can feel the licks of embers against her skin. 

When she meets his gaze, her smile is slow.

“What do I get now that I’ve won?” There’s no response. Grace laughs, wondering why she thought he’d actually speak to her.

The itchiness in her back has gotten worse, her ankle is throbbing to the tune of her heartbeat, her hand is concerningly numb, and she’s slowly starting to see spots at the edge of her vision.

The image of Le Bail stares at her for a long moment, then there’s a whirring to her immediate right. 

The Le Bail box sits on the table, mockingly, and a card pops out of the compartment.

Grace considers flicking him off, but he did just melt the flesh off of her ex-husband and in-laws so fate is not particularly on her side on this one.

With a resigned sigh, Grace picks up the card and a wild, uncontrollable laugh bubbles up inside of her: hysteria and panic, fear and confusion, all muddled together to create a haze of mania. She laughs until her stomach hurts, laughs until she’s crying, until she feels everything and nothing at all.

The card reads _Life._

Le Bail is gone and she’s left alone, surrounded by flesh and bone, sunlight and the smell of wood burning. Tucking the card into the front of her dress, she swears as the world spins and her balance wavers. 

The sound of birdsong follows her into oblivion.

˚°◦

Grace wakes up in a series of disoriented episodes, always surrounded by endless amounts of white. 

At first, she thinks she’s dead; she startles and shakes, blurs of blues surrounding her and she inhales, attempts to call out for help only to slip back into the darkness before she can form the words on her lips.

The second time, she’s a bit more lucid, a bit more aware that she’s in a hospital, but she can’t move her legs and her mind is foggy, her thoughts only able to half form. She’s trapped in her own body, unable to move, unable to scream. 

She’s certain she’s dying this time around.

By the fifth or six or seventh time— she’s not too sure anymore, her eyes seem to open then flutter closed before she can put forth any effort to move or speak, the world blinking in and out like a radio station in the midst of a storm— Grace has concluded that she’s not dead or dying, just that she’s just under a hell of a lot of drugs. 

It's dark when she wakes feeling more rested than any of the previous times but still so very, very tired. 

Her room is cast in murky shades, enhanced by the fluorescent backlighting of the machines around her. 

She recognizes her hospital room this time around, feels lucid enough that she can raise her right hand, assess the bandages surrounding it. A groan escapes her chapped lips when she attempts to flex it, pain searing up her arm, and she’s thankful for it, a reminder that she’s alive— that she survived.

Grace half expects Helene to come bursting from the depths of the darkness swinging her axe with a fanatical cry that she won’t fail Le Bail this time.

The TV is on in the far right of the room, a weatherman gesturing to the screen where happy little suns sit in a row, a single cloud at the end. 

Her eyes begin to close involuntarily; her fatigue a steamroller she can’t outrun.

It's only because she turns her head to the side, her neck cramping in the position its in, stiff and uncomfortable, that she sees him.

He’s watching the TV screen, dark hair curling over his collar; sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one leg crossed over the other, a purple takeaway cup in his hand. She’s half expecting to see blood gushing from his neck, spilling from his lips.

“Daniel.”

He turns and she wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to be sick. He looks so real, alive.

“Rest, Grace.” 

“You make a good hallucination, Daniel.” Her smile is a bit wobbly, stemming from both her guilt and the drugs.

Her hallucination laughs, “If only it was that easy.” 

She wants to ask him what that means but conversing with her delusions is a path she’s not exactly ready to go down just yet. 

Instead, she closes her eyes, whispering an apology to the ghost of the man who wouldn’t let her die, and gives in to the darkness, allowing it to wrap around her; her only constant.

He’s there when she wakes again, the room bright and sunny, the shutters of the large window next to her bed are open, providing her a view of green tree tops and another building a ways off.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she realizes belatedly that she’s actually spoken aloud, her mind-to-mouth filter hasn’t kicked in just yet, her thoughts free flowing. 

Daniel lowers his newspaper and looks at her over the thick black rims of his glasses, “Oh good. You’re awake. I’ll call the nurse.”

All in all, if she’s going to be haunted by one of the Le Domases, she’s glad it’s Daniel. The others would’ve just slowly driven her insane, at least with Daniel she can have some semblance of company.

 _Good job, Grace,_ she thinks on a shallow breath, _you’re royally fucked now._

It’s as if the reminder of Daniel’s death has created a vacuum in her chest that she can’t seem to fill, no matter how hard she tries to breathe.

When her hallucination hands her a cup full of ice chips, a chill slides down her spine. It has nothing to do with the coldness of the cup but the realization that he’s actually holding it.

Hallucinations aren’t supposed to be able to do that.

“Daniel?”

Concern wrinkles in his brows and he straightens in the chair, discarding the paper off to the side. “Grace.”

“You’re dead,” it comes out a bit shaky. If she says it aloud then it has to be true, maybe if she speaks it into the universe, her mind will accept it.

He frowns, then shifts, turning more towards her, hands clasped between his legs as he braces his elbows on his thighs. “No. I’m not, Grace.”

“I saw you get shot,” she can feel the surge of emotions, the swell of anxiety building inside of her, it's almost too much. Her strength is a feeble, delicate thing she’s yet to rebuild. “There was so much blood.”

“That’s true,” he’s looking past her, off into the distance, and she knows he’s reliving that moment as well, his lips tightening in the corners, a stern set to his jaw. “But, apparently my wife never registered her weapon, let alone took herself to a gun range.”

When Grace does nothing more than stare at him, hands shaking, ears beginning to ring, Daniel angles his neck to the side and pulls down a thick white, gauze bandage.

A jagged, pink line decorates the side of his neck, puffy and raw. “Turns out my wife was a terrible shot.”

The terseness in his voice isn’t lost on her, no matter how groggy she feels. “I’m sorry,” she licks her lips, trying to gather the words and the power to say them. No matter how hard she tries, nothing seems to come out.

“I’m not,” a flash of something: not remorse, not betrayal, but a melancholy mix of the two. “I’m sure that’s not something I should be admitting, but she did try to kill me, so I guess her and I are even.”

Grace blinks, swallows, then laughs, thinking of Alex doing the same. “What the fuck.”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” He nods to the TV sitting on mute, where flashes of police tape and the bottom newsreel slides across the screen. 

The manor, half burnt with its gaping maw of charred wood and remnants of crumbling walls appears, followed by a reporter standing outside the front gates, gesticulating with wide, circular motions as they speak.

“The police are saying it was a home invasion.” He tells her without looking away from the screen, just as captivated as she is. “You and I are the lone survivors. They’re calling it an unfortunate tragedy.”

“Well that's a load of bullshit.”

Daniel laughs; it’s a soft, quiet thing, a secret shared between them. His dark eyes turn to hers and she understands the emotions reflected back, feels them mirrored inside of her. “Tell me about it.”

“How come you’re not in here too?” She asks after a while. A nurse has already come in and checked on her vitals, informed her that a doctor will be paying her a visit later on to discuss treatment options for her hand.

She pays no mind to Daniel and Grace fears that he’s an elaborate hallucination once again up until the nurse turns to him, asking if there’s anything Grace is leaving out.

When Daniel confirms that Grace had slept throughout the night and hasn’t shown any signs of pain, the nurse looks appeased and leaves them alone.

His gaze is searching. “I don’t think your nurse would approve of me crawling into your bed.”

Grace huffs out a short laugh, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I have physical therapy every other day,” he informs her, then picks up a sling that she hadn’t noticed earlier. “I’m supposed to keep my arm in this.” Daniel looks a bit annoyed at that, his fingers flex as he rolls his arm then his shoulder. “I’ve been having problems with it. The bullet missed my carotid artery but tore through a few ligaments and muscles on its way.”

His presumed death had weighed on her in such a profound way that she had been unable to call words to her mouth for the most part afterwards. 

She’d been unable to look Alex in the eye when she delivered the news.

Her good hand clenches into the bedsheets, fingers digging deep. 

“Are you…” her throat is constricted, she can barely see past the memory of him falling, the feel of his terribly warm blood against her hand, “is it bad?”

He tilts his head, observing her with his dark eyes and inscrutable expression. “I’ll survive.”

She wants to laugh but she can’t do much other fight the angry, hot tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “ _Daniel_.”

It takes him a minute to respond. 

Daniel’s not one to mince words, unlike his brother who fed her fairytales and spun her pretty little lies. She wouldn’t be able to handle it if Daniel started to do the same. “Yes and no.” Relief floods her chest, easing some of the constricting weights. She’s always been right about him. “Today is a good day. My arm works fine, I can hold up this paper and a cup of coffee. The pain is barely there.”

“Just today though.”

“Yesterday was worse,” he admits gruffly. “Ironically, you had a bad day too. Spent a good portion of the morning cursing my family and kicking the nurses.” 

Grace flushes in embarrassment; she doesn’t remember anything, her mind a maze built to help her navigate her trauma. The darkness a solace from the night terrors and waking horrors. 

Its helps her from dealing with the possibility of her own vulnerability; the notion that she would somehow be unable to shoulder the weight of everything upon her back, that her knees would tremble, and the world would collapse at her feet, completely shattered and irrevocably broken is too much. 

“Not that I blame you.” He looks pensive and Grace wonders what goes on in his head, if he’s thinking of his family, of Alex.

She’s not sure what she said, though she’s sure most of it was well past due. There’s still a bubbling of anger inside of her, a bad case of in-law indigestion that hasn’t seemed to fade. It's easier to focus on the anger, than the rest however. 

Easier to let herself curse the Le Domas family rather than cry over the man she loved.

It's hard for her to still come to terms with the two sides of Alex; different as flip sides of a coin. One of the sides that she was so ignorantly in love with, loved enough to marry and start a life with, and the other, one that she hates, that tried to stab a knife into her heart rather than let her walk away.

She inhales slowly and buries it all back inside of the graveyard that’s become her chest, her ribs like headstones with all the things she’ll never get to say to him etched across their surfaces.

“I don’t. Blame you that is.” When she looks up him, eyes wide, shock parting at her lips, he lets out a shuddering sigh. He looks just as startled as she feels. As if he hadn’t expected the words to come out of his mouth either. “Someone had to burn it all down. I’m just glad it was you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” Grace lets that sink in for a moment, lets him process. She uses his distraction to lean over, seemingly stretching her back, and gathers her cup from the mobile table. She chucks a handful of ice chips at him, “ _that's_ for hitting me with your gun.”

And, for the first time, Grace hears him really laugh. It's not how she imagined, a bit more gruff, strained with emotion, but he’s smiling, eyes crinkling in the corners, head thrown back. 

He looks unbearably young.

Her hands are a bit numb, cold water dripping from her fingers, falling onto her lap, and somehow she finds herself laughing too.

They’re _alive_.

They’re alive and here and laughing as if their demons aren’t waiting in the shadows and their nightmares don’t wear his face.

They both look at each other, yet neither of them say his name.

Daniel looks away first. She knew he would and instantly forces herself to swallow the feeling of resentment that rises like bile. “You should probably sleep. You look like shit.”

Rubbing at her face, she finds herself chuckling despite his humorless tone. He does genuinely sound concerned. 

It affects her more than she’d like to admit. 

“You sure do know how to make a girl feel good.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, looking at her in that way of his that makes her feel vulnerable. This time, however, there’s no way to mask it with a smile and the ticking clock of her awaiting wedding. “That’s not what I’m trying to do right now.”

She doesn’t answer, just picks at the edge of the bed sheet. 

Daniel leans forward, his good arm reaching out, covering over her fingers. It stills her movements and has her looking up towards him. “Seriously, though, get some rest.”

Grace turns her hand in his, traces his palm lines. He doesn’t pull away though she can feel a slight tremor. Leaning back, she tilts her head to the side and lets her eyes slide closed. “I knew you’d help me.”

The sound of the chair tells her that he’s moved back to his original position. “Yeah, well. No one likes a braggart.”

It earns a tiny smile out of her; a chuff of a laugh. It feels good to laugh again, even for a short while. “It's a good thing you already admitted to liking me then, huh?”

“That's when you were my sister-in-law. It was the familial bonds.” 

Grace opens an eye at the sound of clunking and doesn’t bother to hide her amused reaction at Daniel opening the recliner function of the chair. He doesn’t seem to notice her, more preoccupied with getting himself into a comfortable position. “You’re a horrible liar, Daniel.”

He doesn’t look up at her, content to believe that if he simply avoids eye contact that she’ll simply give up staring at him and close her eyes. She doesn’t and his jaw ticks, the only slight indication that he might be anything but indifferent to her. “And you can barely keep your eyes open.”

She slides down into the bed, pulling the sheets up close to her chest. The top blanket is old, worn at the edges and barely keeps her warm. She burrows deeper, hoping that it’ll chase the chill from her bones, the echoes of spirits that haunt her. “Still true.”

Daniel looks up then, as if sensing the way her skin has become cold, the numbness stretching from her head to her toes, affecting her libs, her muscles, the very lines connecting her body to her heart. “I’ll like you more if you go to sleep.”

Lured by the even sound of his voice; the way it worms her better than a blanket ever could, reminding her that she’s not in this alone, Grace’s eyes drift closed. Fatigue sets in like a rolling fog, appearing slowly then consuming her all at once. “Well, in that case.”

If he says something else, she doesn’t hear it. Her eyes are too heavy to reopen, her mind finally settling, no longer plagued by errants thoughts or haunting memories. 

There’s nothing but silence surrounding her, and a strange feeling of security, a feeling more foreign to her than the newly healed scars across her body.

◦°˚

Her recovery isn’t smooth or easy. It’s not glamorous, paired with some sort of mystic revelation that leaves her feeling newly re-energized and self-aware.

It's mostly filled with night-terrors and anxiety; different colored pills and stained bandages.

And Daniel— _always_ Daniel.

Daniel, who’s on his own path; one that's parallel to hers, not quite intersecting, yet just as seemingly endless. Still, there are times where she can see an opening, a clearer avenue awaiting them where their paths converge.

Then the fog rolls in and everything becomes muddled once more; lost in the blood staining her fingertips, the smoke inhalation burning her lungs, and her husband’s voice lurking in the corners of her mind. 

On one of her better days, one where she’s able to walk around on her own, Grace manages to get out of bed on her own and take a shower.

Her strength is a frail, feeble thing and she hates how much she judges herself for it. 

(The strong bride from her wedding night still exists inside of her, limited due to the toll taken on her mind, body, and soul, but Grace sometimes wonders if she’s holding onto yet another fragment of that life that is forever lost to her.

Alex’s voice in her head tells her that she was just as weak as he was in the end; that they were meant for each other.)

She wants to weep. Instead, she does another loop around the room, pausing by the window to watch as the sun begins its descent. The cotton-candy colored mix of blues and pinks fade as red bleeds through the pastel picture, warm tones of oranges and yellows that set the sky ablaze.

Her mind flashes to a burning house and blood coated walls; it’s only a single heartbeat, a moment that passes as soon as she blinks.

Exhaling slowly, Grace inhales with the same measured techniques her therapist has taught her. Her fingers uncurl from their grip on the windowsill, shoulders slowly become lax as she re-anchors herself.

She’s here and she’s alive.

_Take that._

Daniel’s been alternating from watching her and writing on his laptop, the clicking of the keys a welcoming sound that does well to keep her more dangerous thoughts at bay. 

His presence has been a grounding factor; something that tethers her to the here and now. 

It's him who keeps her focused and centered enough to fight off the weight in her chest and the feeling of loss. 

With Daniel around, she’s stronger; no longer fighting the inability to grapple with the anger and bitterness that wrap around her ribcage, eroding away at the bones that keep her heart safe.

(She wonders if he’s remained close because she does the same thing for him.)

Grace glances away from the window, over to Daniel, and finds him staring back right back. 

There are no answers in his eyes. Yet, she can’t seem to look away.

“I want to move to Portland,” Grace decides while flipping through a lifestyle magazine a few days afterwards.

Her nurse has already come for her last visit before shift change. Peering down at Grace’s healing wounds with an inscrutable expression, lips pressed together as her hands move nimbly across Grace’s skin. 

She never feels a thing. Her nurse looks strangely pleased by the end of her assessment.

Daniel looks up, slightly startled at her admission, the back of his newspaper bending down so he can stare at her properly. “Portland,” he repeats a bit dumbfoundedly.

“I can learn how to ski in the winter,” she flips through another set of pages, decides that she’ll do her kitchen in rustic styles, enjoys the homey feel the wood brings. “Clean air, good hiking, eco-friendly.”

“Eco-friendly?” He raises a brow and she’s certain he’s concerned slightly for her mental state, not that she can blame him, yesterday she had spent the entire day lying in bed with the curtains drawn, succumbed to darkness.

Granted, he can’t say anything. There are days he spends with her where he barely speaks, just stares off at a fixed point in the room, a living ghost. 

Sometimes, Grace fears that she’ll wake and be able to pass her hand straight through him, that this all has been a fever dream, a coping mechanism to get her through the hurdles of her trauma.

“I was an _environmental_ _lawyer_ , Daniel.” She sends him a flat, unimpressed look. It’s a look she’s mastered in front of clients and junior staff.

He remains unfazed, however; just simply chuckles, shaking his paper back open. 

Grace doesn’t mention the tremor in his hand.

The room dissolves into an amicable silence once more.

“I’ve always wanted to live in the Pacific Northwest,” he replies a while after and summons a crooked little grin when she turns to him, almost dropping her magazine. “I think it's best I get away from country clubs and tee times.”

Grace doesn’t realize she’s grinning until her cheeks ache, her mix between a giggle and a snort takes both of them by surprise. “Do you even have a job?”

He doesn’t look as offended as she expects him to; his reaction is nothing more than an eye roll. “I work in communications.” 

Alex had worked in IT for the family company, up until he took his distance to a new level, opting to leave the company and his family completely. He was in-between jobs when they returned home for the wedding. 

It had been a sore spot, with him uncomfortable living off her paycheck alone. 

It had been his decision to take up his parents’ offer to pay for the wedding. Now that she knows about the rules, everything begins to make sense; his strange, out of character actions now becoming clearer.

What she had naively chalked up to pre-wedding jitters, she now knows to be the toll of stacking lies upon lies, the formation of his worst fears coming to light.

If she thinks back, something she tends to avoid doing these days, she can remember his father offering him a better opportunity at the wedding. A promise that it would be a step up in the company. Alex’s response had been drowned out by the sound of the band. His expression never faltered.

She wonders now if he had accepted.

“For the company?” She doesn’t say their names, doesn’t want to either, partially afraid that if she does it might conjure them back into reality or leave them to haunt her. Some sort of Boogeyman curse or some shit.

Daniel nodded jerkily, it's taken him a while to come to terms that the company is his now, that he’s technically the CEO and COO of Le Domas Gaming. 

She had called referred to it a dominion first and had watched as his features twisted in quick, rapid successions, mirth, annoyance, aggravation, and exasperation all blending together into a pinched sort of wide-eyed stare.

She told him he looked constipated. In turn, he stole her Jello.

They just refer to it as the company now. It's easier for both of them.

“Despite me being the eldest, we all knew it was going to be Alex who took over after the old man retired. It was Alex’s birthright. He was the good son.”

His name hurts just as much as she had expected it to. It levels her, fully knocking down the house of cards she had built up to convince herself that she is totally and completely _over it_.

Turns out being lied to, almost killed, and gaslighted isn’t something you can magically get over. They don’t have prescriptions for mending a broken heart.

Blinking, she wonders if the burning behind her eyes is anger or tears. She figures out quickly that she’d rather not know. “He was never good, not really.”

She can’t say his name; she wonders if that makes her a coward.

“He was, once.” Daniel argues and she holds in her commentary because he looks haunted around the eyes, remembering the younger brother he lost. She can practically see the webs of past memories weaving their way, a thin veil of longing that disappears quickly. “The pressure was just too much. They asked too much of him. They always asked too much.”

“It wasn’t the pressure of your family, Daniel. They played a part in it, sure, but it was more than that.” Grace thinks back to Alex; how he always managed to seem unflappable, able to roll with just about anything. She had always been slightly jealous of his cavalier attitude to life, only now she knows it was mostly an act to cover his cowardice. 

Alex wanted to be anything but the man he knew he truly was; so he became different versions of himself. The one she loved was just a facet; a single shard of a larger mosaic he’d cobbled together to create a pretty image.

The pain of his memory feels physical, though, rationally, she knows it's simply psychosomatic. 

Its as if his knife had actually rung true, meeting the mark of her heart, tearing her apart.

Daniel turns to her and she can see the slight irritation in his face, the way his Adam’s apple bobs, and the hurt boils into a rage, an inferno inside of her fueled by anger and resentment. 

“In the end, he chose the family over me because he knew you all would stand by him and I wouldn’t. That’s not love, Daniel. _That’s_ cowardice.” Sitting up straighter, Grace can feel her jaw clicking from the tension, only she can’t seem to catch her breath. “He was scared and selfish. He was also your brother and my husband, and we both loved him.”

Nerves creep up her spine, tendrils which wrap around her chest and softly squeeze, so gentle they’re almost unnoticeable at first. 

Grace attempts to fight it off by reaching for her water, only the mobile table is too far and she can’t seem to get her muscles to cooperate.

It’s not often that this problem appears, this feeling where she wants to get out of her own skin, where she becomes sweaty and nervous, slight tremors shaking through her body even though she knows she’s fine

Taking another long breath— long enough that her lungs ache— she hopes it’ll simply just pass. A prickle of warning pain that has her slowly exhaling before spots can dance across her vision.

“Drink,” Daniel is there, solid and real and she slides her hand over his, reassuring herself of the fact.

The water makes its way down her throat, she can feel it, a cold needling pain. 

It’s uncomfortable; it's another reminder that she’s alive. 

The surge of anger she feels at herself is so violent she shakes, the shattered pieces of herself rattling inside, and she’s left feeling so unbearably tired.

If Daniel notices, he doesn’t say anything, just steadies the cup for her when she can no longer hold it on her own. 

Closing her eyes, she focuses on her breathing, Daniel’s voice a welcoming murmur as he reads something from the paper to her. It takes a bit; eventually the tension eases from the gaps in her spine, her chest no longer feeling as if someone is holding her down, restraining her, the bindings too tight, too _much_.

She hates that Alex’s managed to take this from her too, bits and pieces of herself that she can never get back; she hates even more how helpless she is to let him.

When Grace is able to open her eyes again, she’s not even slightly surprised to see Daniel sitting closer, his legs propped up on the edge of her bed, his commentary over current events a soothing sound.

“Thank you.” 

Daniel doesn’t say anything much, just flips the page, makes a strange sound that could possibly be explained as a chortle, and begins reading their astrology predictions

Grace wakes in the middle of the night covered in sweat and gasping out a plea. Nausea builds inside of her and she’s desperate to move, wanting to get out, to run but there’s nowhere for her to go.

She pushes the covers off of her, despite the chill that has created fissures inside of her bones, leaving her feeling brittle.

The feel of her feet on the floor does nothing to ground her. The floor is colder than her own skin and she winces, yanking them back up. Her mind begins playing tricks on her because the haunting sound of someone loading a weapon causes her to jerk backwards, her bed creaking in protest.

Her heart begins to beat louder, thrumming a deafening beat in her ears, shadows move from under the door, and Grace screws her eyes shut. 

With gaining volume, the _Hide and Seek_ tune seeps from under the crack in the door and Grace has to fight back the urge to scream.

The door opens and she braces herself for impact: a knife, a gunshot, a mix of embers and brimstone signaling the appearance of Le Bail.

Instead, it's a dark figure swallowed by the influx of light and the inexorable darkness.

“Grace?” Light cascades into the room, illuminating Daniel’s silhouette.

“Oh God.” She lets out a sobbing sigh, hands covering her face and she can hear him talking to the nurse on duty, sounding authoritative. 

Much more calmer than her, all wrapped up in tangled sheets, knees pulled to her chest, her nails cutting half moon marks into her palms.

“Okay...hey,” Daniel’s touch is questioning and when she doesn’t pull away, he wraps an arm around her. “Another nightmare?”

Grace leans on him, hopes her additional weight won’t cause his house of cards to collapse. “It felt real.” 

“They always do.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head and she freezes for a breath, then hums, releasing her grip finger by finger.

Grace lingers in his arms and she feels ridiculous for not wanting to let him go, so she does just to prove he can.

The space where he used to be leaves her hands wanting and she wants nothing more than to chase the last bits of his warmth.

She is being ridiculous.

She wants a fucking cigarette. 

Suddenly irritated with everything, Grace attempts to take off thermal top she put to help aid with the chills she gets from time to time. There’s a brief struggle with her shirt, and she’s got one arm through, her head about to finally reach freedom, claustrophobia starting cause a panic under her skin when she feels a tug. 

Another set of hands help her with her shirt, pulling it firmly off, and she blinks into Daniel’s eyes, relief slipping past her lips in a soft puff of air.

He doesn’t look, just hands her the jacket she had off to the side, and waits until she’s zipped it up to a comfortable position before returns his gaze back to her.

“I can’t—” Grace runs a hand through her hair, yanks at the edges, then ties it up in a sloppy bun. “Daniel.” It's a plea and a sigh, a struggle that she can’t seem to contain any longer.

The bed dips next to her and he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t touch her until she reaches out for him, fumbling slightly until he joins their fingers together, lacing them tight. “Grace?”

“I dream of him,” she tells him; wonders if he does too. “I dream of him telling me that it was never love, that the game was to prove himself to the family. I dream of him dying and begging me to choose, only I can never choose him. I never do and he always dies.”

Daniel pulls back to look at her and she wonders what he sees, wonders if he still sees the woman he gave up everything to save.

Grace isn’t sure he does because she can’t seem to see her either.

Incapable of stopping herself, she tells him, watches him reel back in shock. 

She’s on a roll now, secrets and truths spilling from her lips, tasting like the ashes that flicker in her chest, the charred remains of her bones that rattle at night when she thinks of him in her sleep.

Daniel’s haunting her even though he’s never left. He wanders the burnt husk of her ribcage, teasing and taunting, leaving her with the echoes of _what if, what if, what if_ to become as familiar as her own heartbeat.

His eyes are intent on hers, hot and more alive than they’ve ever been these past few months. His hand is shaking with small, violent tremors as it cups her cheek. 

One of the dark, ugly parts of her— the parts of her that now belong to the remnants of what happened on her wedding night, the trauma that still hasn’t yet festered to the surface— wonders if she’s found herself locked in a tortuous form of deja vu.

Wonders if Daniel looks to her and sees someone who will make him better; who will fix the parts of him he’s never come to accept.

On better days, she knows it’s not true. Knows that Daniel is fighting his own demons alongside her. That he doesn’t take anymore than she offers, and vice versa. She realizes his trauma is a bit more complex, a bit deeper rooted; they were his family after all, it wasn’t just one night for him but years.

Blood doesn’t fade even when it's in the grave.

On those days, Grace is content knowing Daniel is on her side, that if anything, they’re friends now. Bonded together by bullet wounds and scars that rest under their skin.

However, tonight— or this morning, she can’t quite tell, the darkness blinds her to so much yet not enough— she’s ruled by her traitorous heart.

“You—” he swallows and it’s a wonder he’s still here with her now. Her thoughts have already started a sickness; somber musings of how Daniel deserves better than to be in a hospital in the middle of the night tending to a woman who wears the deaths of his family like scars. 

“You’re right. When I look at you, I don’t see the same woman I saw the day of the wedding.” Grace’s laugh masks her heart break. Daniel bites off a curse and cups her cheek, forcing her to look nowhere else but into his eyes. 

She doesn’t find herself drowning this time. This time she remains above water, treading carefully through the ripples and wakes.

“I see someone who is headstrong, who is witty despite her best efforts, who snorts at the niche jokes in the Funnies.” Daniel presses on, looking wildly adamant now. 

Despite the intensity in his voice, his grip is gentle, unrestricting. She could move at any time. She chooses to remain where she is. 

“I see someone who deserves to live not just because she’s a fighter, but because I know her better than I did that night. Because I know I like her, for more than a simple forty-eight hour introduction and surface qualities. But for everything underneath… the good, the bad, and the parts of you that you see as ugly but I find to be inspiring.”

Those words bury themselves into the marrow of her very bones. She feels like she is a kite caught in a gale and he's struggling to keep her tethered and safe.

She opens her eyes and meets his gaze, sees her own fractured heart reflected there. Knows that with time comes healing and with healing comes acceptance. She wants to tell him that it’s going to be okay, that they’ll be able to make it out the other side. But she can’t, the words wouldn’t carry the weight necessary; instead she’ll have to show him. 

Sliding a tentative hand over his, Grace grips his fingers and holds on tight. “You’re a good guy, Daniel.” She murmurs, remembers those words from that night, remembers the look in his eyes. His eyes are still dark, still endless, but she can see a light in them now that she never noticed before.“You’re a really, really really good guy.”

Daniel doesn’t respond, the only sound that fills the room is his shaky exhale and the beeping of the monitors. Slowly, he removes his hand from her grip, his thumb brushing across her pulse point, lingering where her pulse flutters under his touch. There's no tremor today, his hold is steady and sure and it gives her hope, a tiny flame of it that burns through the all-consuming darkness.

She melts, her breath catching, because never once in her life has anyone looked at her the way he does, the way he continues to. It sends her head reeling – all her thoughts leaking out of her brain and she’s left speechless, a feat not easily achieved. 

He cares for her; there’s no judgement, no fear, he knows her and accepts her. He accepts her for everything she is: completely riddled with flaws and imperfections, scars both invisible and visible, many of which mirror his own.

With Daniel she can be herself, even if she’s a complete, tragic mess.

“Grace,” Daniel speaks for the first time and the sound is loud in their quiet room, both of them flinching at the way it echoes, “No matter what you decide…I’ll be there. If you want.”

“I do,” the two words carry more weight than her vows and her heart starts up again, the vocal equivalent of a defibrillator shocking her back to life, and when she breathes, its weightless, full of hope that she’s never let himself truly reach the surface.

His thumb continues to brush across her wrist in soothing motions and for the first time in weeks, she feels safe, really truly safe. She’s warm, cocooned in the feeling It’s a heartbeat pulsing around her, so similar to her own.

 _You don’t get to break me_ , she swears herself with the strength of the woman she wants to become– the one Daniel sees when he looks at her– vibrating through her, racing up the contours of her spine. _I may not be whole, but I refuse to be broken._

˚°◦

Over time, her jagged, fractured pieces begin to settle back, fitting the newly-mending bits of herself back together, shaking the foundation of her person at the core. She’s not quite sure where the rest of her will fall into place; the person she was before the wedding and the person that’s now starting a new life seem to have blurred at the edges. 

They’re not the same person, but they’re not so different after all either.

With a deep breath, Grace looks past her reflection and out towards the tips of trees and the white peaks of the clouds around them. 

Whoever it is that will emerge is someone Grace knows will be someone deserving of this life; of the love she once believed was possible, of the hopes and dreams she once held dear.

She’s not there yet, but she will be. 

Stepping out through the sliding doors, she inhales, the bite of the cold air stinging in her lungs. Its not the same high as a cigarette— something she's given up and only seems to crave after a spectacularly fucked-up nightmare these days— but it makes her _feel_.

Grace finds that she’s no longer afraid of feeling; no longer does a rush of emotion send her to the floor with her head between her legs. 

She’s growing, leaning, accepting. And maybe healing a bit on the way too.

“Good for you,” she whispers to the open air, “ _good for fucking you._ ”

Daniel’s voice breaks her moment of self-growth and reflection. He appears just on the edge of her line of sight, one finger pointed towards the forest below. “Is that a bear?”

“What?” Grace looks for the bear, then blows out a loud gust of air. The action shifts her bangs— because this new Grace has _bangs_ now— and she shakes a hand through them so they’ll fall back into place. “Daniel, no, that’s not a bear.”

“Are you _sure?_ ”

She looks out again, past the endless rolling green hills, towards the darker forest made of shadows and gaps where the light is able to break through the thick foliage of the trees. 

There’s no bear, just a squirrel hastily making its way up the tattered bark of a nearby tree.

Grace rolls her eyes dramatically for him to see. “ _You_ can go check, if you want. Though I doubt the bear will be too happy.”

“I’ve survived worse.” He deadpans and she stares, letting his words sink weightily into the air as he intended, before she snorts.

“A demon is not the same as a bear.” When Daniel raises his brows, she cuts him off succinctly. She knows that look all too well by now. “You can make a pact with a demon! You can’t with a bear! You can’t win in a fight against a bear, Daniel. They’re _bears_.”

He leans against the wooden railing that goes along the border of their outdoor balcony and crosses his arms. “I cannot believe you’re telling me right now that you think that a bear would best me in a fight.”

She takes in the way he seems wholly relaxed, legs crossed at the ankles, his smirk lazy and just a bit goading. Doesn’t realize he’s gotten her out of her own head until his gaze lingers softly across her face, searching for lines of tension, the signs of another episode which have become fewer and fewer since their move. 

“I don’t _think_ that, I know it.”

Daniel presses one of his hands to his heart. “To think I moved cross-country with a woman who doesn’t even believe in my ability to defend myself.”

Moving away from the balcony herself, Grace heads through the double glass which lead into the kitchen. 

She would’ve stayed out there longer, surrounded everything and nothing at all, but the timer she placed is about to go off and she’d rather not burn her second attempt at cooking dinner. “Not if its against a bear..”

“Travesty.” He doesn’t sound too hurt by it, despite the exaggeration in his tone.

Nothing is burning, which is a good sign, and Grace glowers at Daniel when he attempts to take a step into the kitchen. He lifts his hands in a peaceful gesture and slides into a seat at the island.

Testing the chicken, Grace smiles to herself, pride working its way into her chest, filling her with a sense of accomplishment that she’s lacked in the past few months. Even with her progress, she’s always felt just that hair’s breadth away from some unattainable goal. 

Cooking, according to her new therapist, might give her back a sense of control while also working as a coping strategy. 

Despite her first attempt ending in a colossal failure that set off their smoke alarms and had Daniel waving the smoke outside onto the balcony with a baking pan, Grace felt determined rather than dejected and resolved to try again.

There’s a sauce she’s been taste testing for hours now. She pours it on top, lets it sit, then takes a bite to test. It's not perfect, a bit tangy in the end, but it's _good_. 

She takes another bite, letting the flavors sit on her tongue for a moment, considering what could be changed. Leaning with her back against the counter, she eyes Daniel. “I would say something nice at your funeral.”

“How touching.”

She passes the spoon to Daniel who smiles genuinely at her and finishes off the piece with a pleased noise in the back of his throat. 

There’s a heat that tingles up the base of her neck, one that has her turning away and opening the fridge. “Probably something like: he was a good man, though not a smart one since he thought he could beat a bear.”

Daniel’s up and moving, she can hear him despite his obvious attempt to be quiet. “ _Great_. I’m banning you from my funeral.”

She pulls out the salad she made earlier, then checks the small instant pot her therapist recommended. The rice is almost done. “ _That's_ harsh.”

“Say something nicer then.”

He’s close, probably sticking his nose into the chicken, and she looks over at him, her gaze sharp and unimpressed. “Fine! He had a big dick, but the bear was bigger.” 

Daniel pauses, a piece hanging from his fingertips. Her nose wrinkles at the unsanitary sight before her. “Well, _now_ it just sounds like you were trying to imply something about me and the bear.”

Grace’s startled, slightly bewildered laugh escapes in a mix between a snort and a chortle, and she shoves the salad bowl at him in lieu of responding to any of...that. “Toss this would you?”

“Are you asking me to toss your salad, Grace? How delightfully naughty of you.” He drolls, taking the bowl, capturing her laugher by kissing her, his lips curved into a smile that no longer carries the same sharp acidic twist she’d come to know him by. 

Today he tastes a little sweeter, honey mixed with a surprise of citrus; he was drinking tea before he came out to find her. Another brush of her lips tells her that it was just that: tea. 

No alcohol to chase away his demons with oblivion.

Tenderly, Daniel hand slides across her shoulder to the back of her neck, cupping and holding on with a slight pressure that she’s discovered she enjoys. He knows she’s the strongest of the two of them, yet he touches her with a gentleness that brings tears to the corner of her eyes.

He’s still made of sharp edges and cutting jokes, a reminder of the past that neither of them can ever leave behind, but he’s softened some— for her, but also for himself. 

Ever since the move, Daniel smiles more; they’re always slow forming and hard won but when they appear, Grace feels accomplished and can’t help but smile too. There’s a lightness to his gaze now, a gentleness that teases at the corners of his eyes, softening his expression.

(He’s still prone to moodiness, moments of self-deprecation, and a darkness around him that once was impermeable but is now nothing more than fog which eventually evaporates with time.)

This whole thing— _them_ — its new, tentative and unexplored, yet somehow the most familiar thing she’s ever felt in her life. 

When he pulls away, she licks her lips, savoring the taste, and realizes with a slow, sly smile that he’s doing the same.

“Try not to kill me tonight, huh?” Daniel teases, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. 

“Poison would be too good for you.” When she points a finger at him in mock ferocity, he laughs softly under his breath, using his good arm to carry the salad bowl over to the table.

It's a bit macabre, joking about death, but they’ve earned this, she thinks. They’ve earned this and so much more.

Daniel winks at her from over his shoulder and she knows him well enough to know that he’s not bothered by it in the slightest; there’s no hint of tension in his shoulders, no tightening around his eyes, or the brief, almost imperceptible flex of his jaw to reflect his discomfort.

He seems at ease, content to sit at the table and wait for her.

“So,” he asks after taking a bite and moaning around his fork; she blushes, pleased and a bit aroused, and the flash in his dark eyes has her rubbing her thighs together, already anticipating dessert, “how _would_ you kill me?”

◦°˚

On the day that would be her wedding anniversary, Grace wakes before Daniel. 

Its earlier than their normal weekend routine and she considers going back to sleep, only she’s unable to slow her thoughts, her body bouncing with nerves though she has no idea why.

Resigned to her fate, she opens her eyes and gives them the chance to adjust to the shifting darkness of the room.

Tucking her hair behind her ears, Grace pushes herself up and stares down at Daniel’s sleeping form and snaps a photo of the drool coming out from his mouth for a later date. 

Brody lifts his head from where he’s been curled up on Daniel’s side, using his hip as a pillow and blinks up at her.

“Wanna go outside?”

Unconcerned over Daniel’s still sleeping from, Brody launches himself across the bed, catching on the sheets and sliding off the side. He lands in a heap on the floor, inches away from his dog bed.

“Oh buddy,” trying not to laugh at the affronted looking pup, she scratches between his ears, kissing his nose soundly when he laps at her face. “Let Mommy pee and then we’ll head out.”

Brody stares at her with his bright eyes and thumps his tail louder.

Grace assumes that’s his way of saying yes.

She finds him gnawing on one of his new indestructible toys, half of it already in shreds. He drops the rubber toy, tail thwacking against the hardwood. 

Wondering if there was a money-back guarantee for the toy, since apparently her dog is part-canine part-alligator, she pats at her leg and attempts to remember if she kept the receipt or not. “Come on, baby.”

They make their way down the stairs as quietly as possible and Grace lets him out the back, watching as he startles both himself and the squirrels who were playing in the yard. 

Snorting, she goes about her normal routine, pulling her favorite mug from the dishwasher and slapping a clean post-it note on the front; a reminder to herself to unload it later since Daniel was the one to run it.

Curling up on the bench in the breakfast nook that outlooks the backyard, she checks her messages and stares at the date until her eyes blur.

Wiping away the tears, Grace is surprised to find that she doesn’t feel bogged down by grief and loss. She’s a little sad, sure, but surprisingly still okay. 

“What are you doing?” Daniel voice comes from over her shoulder and Grace smiles, not bothering to turn.

Taking a sip of her coffee, she cups the mug with both hands, savoring the warmth of the morning sun. “Just listening to the silence.” 

There’s no birdsong today. She wonders what that means. If it means anything at all.

“Okay,” he sounds a bit confused, yet Grace can catch the slight hint of endeaarance in his voice. He settles against the bench with her, his own coffee in hand; his hair is in complete disarray, wayward curls going all over the place. 

Its her favorite look on him.

Grace takes a moment to stare at his mug, then back at him. One eyebrow lifts. “Is that some sort of subliminal message?”

Daniel takes a pointed sip out of the mug, tapping the side which reads: _Someone in Beaverton Loves Me._ “Maybe.”

Leaning against him, she rests her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes. His arm is heavy across her shoulders, tugging her until she’s pressed fully against him. 

Together, they watch Brody run around the yard, blissfully unaware that what he’s chasing is his own shadow. 

“Look at him.” Daniel murmurs after a long while, sighing when Brody thwacks his face against the side of a bush and yelps, looking around fearfully for the offender. “I’m worried our dog suffers from imbecility.” 

She smacks at his chest, then pauses, the sunlight catching on her palm, making her pink scar glow. In the reflection of the mirror she can see herself and Daniel, only they look different, younger; her dressed in white and him in suspenders.

Closing her eyes, she focuses on the now: his steady heartbeat, his fingers tapping out an unfamiliar tune on her thigh, their dog barking maniacally. “You were right. I didn’t belong in your family.”

He tenses for a second, then relaxes slowly, his arm dropping to curve around her waist. “I meant it as a compliment.”

“I know.” She does know that now. There are times where she still doubts herself, doubts Alex, doubts everything, but she’s never once doubted Daniel.

Not that night and never a day after.

His dark-eyed gaze seemed to burn through her, making her feel oddly exposed and vulnerable.

Wrapping a strand of blonde hair around her fingertips, he waits until she looks up at him. “You okay?”

Grace doesn’t answer immediately; sometimes she needs the time to sort out the tornado of emotions swirling around her to finally reach the center of her emotions. Daniel never pushes her, just waits until she’s ready. “Better every day.” 

His hand comes up to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing along her jawline, fingers sliding until he’s softly cupping her cheek so that she can’t look anywhere but at him. 

Raising her own hand, the one with the jagged scar through the middle, a scar Grace chose to keep despite the reassurances that plastic surgery could help aid the sight of the puckered pink outline against her pale skin, she lets her fingers slide past his collar and rests her fingers against his own scar.

“Another man, a better man would be more deserving of you.” Daniel whispers, eyes fluttering shut, his dark lashes catching the light. He picks up her hand in a brisk motion that causes an uptick in her heart rate, yet the kiss he places to her scar is slow, gentle, wanting, and a heat tightens in her stomach, causing her toes to curl, her heart beating even faster than before.

Grace turns her cheek to place a kiss to the palm of his hand, letting her teeth graze against his skin, her eyes searching when they meet his. “I suppose this knight in shining armor would be willing to get shot in the neck for me too, huh?”

That seems to startle a laugh out of him and he quickly wipes the bit of coffee which has fallen from his lips before it can stain his clothes. “I fucking hope not, that shit hurts.”

“Well,” Grace pulls back, her hands coming to rest against his chest, and angles her body so that he can see her fully, so he can see the truth behind the words she’s about to say. “I suppose you’re the best choice for me then.”

“Not exactly the happy ever after you had planned, huh?” He chuckles, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile that reached his eyes. Daniel dodges her swat, chuckling when she simply sighs dramatically against him, leaving him to hold up the entirety of her weight.

“No.” Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Grace tries to visualize the person she was and then exhales, allowing that vision to dissipate in a cloud of figurative smoke. Whoever that woman is, she doesn’t matter now. Not anymore. “No, it's a hell of a lot better than the fairytale I thought I was signing up for.” 

She’s had time to mourn not just the loss of Alex, but also the love she held for him and version of her husband she’s had to let go of.

In that time, she’s also mourned herself; the piece of her that belonged to Alex and one that deserved a proper grieving period.

"Your mom told me something once. She said: stand tall and fuck 'em. So I did...we did."

She feels his fingers pause in their wandering, halting somewhere between the small gap between the hem of her shirt and top of her leggings. There’s uncertainty in his touch, a wary trembling that Grace knows is not due to his injury, its a reflection of the depth of his feelings.

“That wasn’t real. This?” She gestures between them, lets her hand rest on his heart, the thrum of his heartbeat steady under her scarred palm. “This is real. _We’re_ real.”

Daniel’s exhale is heavy and weighted. “Yeah, we are.” 

She kisses him softly at first, a brush of her lips against his, tasting the bitterness of his coffee and the sweetness of the specialty caramel creamer he uses, and smiles when he tugs her closer. 

She’s cracked her heart open and let him see every ugly, ragged piece of her and he simply accepted them— accepted her— and showed her his own in return.

No masks, no lies. 

It's a strange, karmic sense that fills the air, almost a year after their first initial meeting that she would find a future with a man who helped her burn down her past. “I love you.” She murmurs against his lips, a tear sliding hot against her cheek.

“I didn’t think I could love until I met you,” he tells her, with dark eyes and a bleeding heart. He traces a finger down her cheek, along the same path a tear had taken, he reaches her chin and gently cups it, “I love you too.” 

He means it. She’s never heard anyone mean anything more in her life; he packs each syllable with such sincerity it makes her quake, shakes her to her core. She’s never known a love like this.

Her life has been masked, hidden in a swirl of distrust and lies and secrecy. But there’s no secrets now, nothing but the steady beat of his heart and the security of the forged bond between them.

Pressing a kiss to her lips, he showers her with softer kisses across her lashes, her nose, her cheeks, her forehead. This equally as damaged man who lends her his strength until her own returns, until she can breathe normally again. 

“How about we play something?” Daniel’s hands ghost across her eyes, obscuring her vision without making her feel trapped, and she laughs, leaning back against his chest. “A game.”

He’s warm, solid, real. 

_Hers._

“What kind of game?”

“Don’t worry,” his breath is hot against her neck and she rubs herself against him, pressing herself against the seam of his pants, enjoying the sharp groan she receives at the motion, “it's not hide and seek.”

“ _Damn_.” She snaps her fingers in a feigned disappointed gesture, “and I’m the reigning hide and seek champion too.”

He laughs, his breath hot against her ear and it's her turn to moan. His proximity causing her nerve endings to fire in million different directions, her body coming alight, a slow, increasing burn from within. “That you are. I was thinking of something a bit more fun,” he kisses her earlobe, down her jaw, then his lips and his body are gone. “Tag! You’re it.”

Grace whirls around just as he takes off running, her curiosity outweighing the bundle of nerves sitting on her chest. “What do I get when I win?”

“You’ll just have to find out!” 

She can barely pinpoint his voice, but Brody bursts through the dog door and takes off with loud, booming barks. Grace immediately follows, laughter spilling from her lips, loud and carefree. She's slightly overcome with twin emotions of surprise and giddiness blooming inside of her, excitement racing through her veins. For once, she doesn't second guess herself, doesn't look over her shoulder for a ghost who isn't there, or brace herself for a blow that will never come; instead, she plays along, happy and content, feeling completely and utterly whole.

This time, she’s looking forward to playing the game.


End file.
